It was the lad who had peached upon him about the grocer's cart; but he bore little malice, not at least towards the young and small. "How dare you, sir, break the bottle?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging a yellow cricket-stump over him.
The boy had been instructed to get over the playground wall (at a selected spot where the broken glass had been removed from the top, and niches made convenient in the brick); to run a quarter of a mile; to purchase a pint of rum-shrub on credit; to brave all the Doctor's outlying spies, and to clamber back into the playground again; during the performance of which feat, his foot had slipt, and the bottle was broken, and the shrub had been spilt, and his pantaloons had been damaged, and he appeared before his employer a perfectly guilty and trembling, though harmless, wretch.
"How dare you, sir, break it?" says Cuff; "you blundering little thief. You drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir."

It was the lad who had told about the grocer's cart; but Dobbin bore no malice towards the young and small.
"How dare you break the bottle, sir?" says Cuff to the urchin, swinging a cricket-stump at him. The boy had been instructed to get over the playground wall; to run a quarter of a mile; to purchase a pint of rum-shrub on credit; to brave all the Doctor's spies, and clamber back into the playground again. His foot had slipped, and the bottle was broken, and he stood guilty and trembling.
"How dare you?" says Cuff; "you blundering little thief. You drank it, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir."


Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the child's hand. A moan followed. Dobbin looked up. The Fairy Peribanou had fled into the inmost cavern with Prince Ahmed: the Roc had whisked away Sindbad the Sailor out of the Valley of Diamonds out of sight, far into the clouds: and there was everyday life before honest William; and a big boy beating a little one without cause.
"Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little schoolfellow, whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin quivered, and gathered himself up in his narrow old clothes.
"Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff, and down came the wicket again on the child's hand.--Don't be horrified, ladies, every boy at a public school has done it. Your children will so do and be done by, in all probability. Down came the wicket again; and Dobbin started up.

Down came the stump with a great thump on the child's hand. A moan followed. Dobbin looked up: the Roc whisked away Sinbad the Sailor out of sight, and there was everyday life; a big boy beating a little one without cause.
"Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little schoolfellow, whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin quivered, and gathered himself up.
"Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff. Down came the stump again; and Dobbin


I can't tell what his motive was. Torture in a public school is as much licensed as the knout in Russia. It would be ungentlemanlike (in a manner) to resist it. Perhaps Dobbin's foolish soul revolted against that exercise of tyranny; or perhaps he had a hankering feeling of revenge in his mind, and longed to measure himself against that splendid bully and tyrant, who had all the glory, pride, pomp, circumstance, banners flying, drums beating, guards saluting, in the place. Whatever may have been his incentive, however, up he sprang, and screamed out, "Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child any more; or I'll--"
"Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at this interruption. "Hold out your hand, you little beast."
"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life," Dobbin said, in reply to the first part of Cuff's sentence; and little Osborne, gasping and in tears, looked up with wonder and incredulity at seeing this amazing champion put up suddenly to defend him: while Cuff's astonishment was scarcely less. Fancy our late monarch George III when he heard of the revolt of the North American colonies: fancy brazen Goliath when little David stepped forward and claimed a meeting; and you have the feelings of Mr. Reginald Cuff when this rencontre was proposed to him.

 sprang up, and screamed out,
"Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child any more; or I'll-"
"Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement. "Hold out your hand, you little beast."
"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life," Dobbin said; and little Osborne, gasping and in tears, looked up with wonder at seeing this amazing champion put up suddenly to defend him. Cuff's astonishment was scarcely less.


"After school," says he, of course; after a pause and a look, as much as to say, "Make your will, and communicate your last wishes to your friends between this time and that."
"As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle holder, Osborne."
"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you see his papa kept a carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his champion.
Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almost ashamed to say, "Go it, Figs"; and not a single other boy in the place uttered that cry for the first two or three rounds of this famous combat; at the commencement of which the scientific Cuff, with a contemptuous smile on his face, and as light and as gay as if he was at a ball, planted his blows upon his adversary, and floored that unlucky champion three times running. At each fall there was a cheer; and everybody was anxious to have the honour of offering the conqueror a knee.
"What a licking I shall get when it's over," young Osborne thought, picking up his man. "You'd best give in," he said to Dobbin; "it's only a thrashing, Figs, and you know I'm used to it." But Figs, all whose limbs were in a quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his little bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time.
As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows that were aimed at himself, and Cuff had begun the attack on the three preceding occasions, without ever allowing his enemy to strike, Figs now determined that he would commence the engagement by a charge on his own part; and accordingly, being a left-handed man, brought that arm into action, and hit out a couple of times with all his might--once at Mr. Cuff's left eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose.

"After school," said he, after a pause.
"As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle holder, Osborne."
"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for he was rather ashamed of his champion.
Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almost ashamed to say, "Go it, Figs"; and not a single other boy uttered that cry for the first two or three rounds of the fight. At its start, Cuff, with a contemptuous smile on his face, planted blows upon his adversary and floored him three times running. At each fall there was a cheer.
"What a beating I shall get when it's over," young Osborne thought, picking up his man. "You'd best give in," he said to Dobbin; "it's only a thrashing, Figs, and you know I'm used to it."
But Figs, whose limbs were in a quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his little bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time.
As he did not know how to parry Cuff's blows, Figs now determined that he would start with a charge on his own part; and accordingly, being a left-handed man, hit out a couple of times with all his might - once at Mr. Cuff's left eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose.


Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the assembly. "Well hit, by Jove," says little Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur, clapping his man on the back. "Give it him with the left, Figs my boy."
Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the combat. Cuff went down every time. At the sixth round, there were almost as many fellows shouting out, "Go it, Figs," as there were youths exclaiming, "Go it, Cuff." At the twelfth round the latter champion was all abroad, as the saying is, and had lost all presence of mind and power of attack or defence. Figs, on the contrary, was as calm as a quaker. His face being quite pale, his eyes shining open, and a great cut on his underlip bleeding profusely, gave this young fellow a fierce and ghastly air, which perhaps struck terror into many spectators. Nevertheless, his intrepid adversary prepared to close for the thirteenth time.

Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of all.
"Well hit, by Jove," says little Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur, clapping his man on the back. "Give it him with the left, Figs my boy."
Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the fight. Cuff went down every time. At the sixth round, there were almost as many fellows shouting for Figs as for Cuff. At the twelfth round Cuff lost all presence of mind and power of attack. Figs, on the contrary, was calm and pale, his eyes shining open, and a great cut on his underlip bleeding profusely. He had a fierce and ghastly air, which struck terror into many spectators.
Nevertheless, Cuff prepared to close for the thirteenth time


If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell's Life, I should like to describe this combat properly. It was the last charge of the Guard--(that is, it would have been, only Waterloo had not yet taken place)--it was Ney's column breasting the hill of La Haye Sainte, bristling with ten thousand bayonets, and crowned with twenty eagles--it was the shout of the beef-eating British, as leaping down the hill they rushed to hug the enemy in the savage arms of battle--in other words, Cuff coming up full of pluck, but quite reeling and groggy, the Fig-merchant put in his left as usual on his adversary's nose, and sent him down for the last time.
"I think that will do for him," Figs said, as his opponent dropped as neatly on the green as I have seen Jack Spot's ball plump into the pocket at billiards; and the fact is, when time was called, Mr. Reginald Cuff was not able, or did not choose, to stand up again.
And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would have made you think he had been their darling champion through the whole battle; and as absolutely brought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious to know the cause of the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs violently, of course; but Cuff, who had come to himself by this time, and was washing his wounds, stood up and said, "It's my fault, sir--not Figs'--not Dobbin's. I was bullying a little boy; and he served me right." By which magnanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror a whipping, but got back all his ascendancy over the boys which his defeat had nearly cost him.
Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of the transaction.
Sugarcane House, Richmond, March, 18--

; coming up full of pluck, but reeling and groggy. The Fig-merchant put in his left on his adversary's nose, and sent him down for the last time.
"I think that will do," Figs said, as his opponent dropped neatly on the green, and did not stand up again.
And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as brought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious to know the cause of the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs; but Cuff, who had come to himself by this time, stood up and said, "It's my fault, sir - not Dobbin's. I was bullying a little boy; and he served me right." By this magnanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror a whipping, but got back all his ascendancy over the boys.
Young Osborne wrote home to his parents.


DEAR MAMA,--I hope you are quite well. I should be much obliged to you to send me a cake and five shillings. There has been a fight here between Cuff & Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the School. They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff is now Only Second Cock. The fight was about me. Cuff was licking me for breaking a bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call him Figs because his father is a Grocer--Figs & Rudge, Thames St., City--I think as he fought for me you ought to buy your Tea & Sugar at his father's. Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can't this, because he has 2 Black Eyes.

Dear Mama,
I hope you are quite well. I should be much obliged to you to send me a cake and five shillings. There has been a fight here between Cuff & Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the School. They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. The fight was about me. Cuff was licking me for breaking a bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call him Figs because his father is a Grocer. I think as he fought for me you ought to buy your Tea & Sugar at his father's. Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can't this week, because he has 2 Black Eyes.


He has a white Pony to come and fetch him, and a groom in livery on a bay mare. I wish my Papa would let me have a Pony, and I am
Your dutiful Son, GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE
P.S.--Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her out a Coach in cardboard. Please not a seed-cake, but a plum-cake.
In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose prodigiously in the estimation of all his schoolfellows, and the name of Figs, which had been a byword of reproach, became as respectable and popular a nickname as any other in use in the school. "After all, it's not his fault that his father's a grocer," George Osborne said, who, though a little chap, had a very high popularity among the Swishtail youth; and his opinion was received with great applause. It was voted low to sneer at Dobbin about this accident of birth. "Old Figs" grew to be a name of kindness and endearment; and the sneak of an usher jeered at him no longer.

He has a white Pony to come and fetch him, and a groom on a bay mare. I wish my Papa would let me have a Pony, and I am
Your dutiful Son, GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE
P.S. Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her out a Coach in cardboard. Please not a seed-cake, but a plum-cake.
After Dobbin's victory, his character rose greatly in the eyes of all his schoolfellows, and the name of Figs became as respectable a nickname as any other in the school.
"After all, it's not his fault that his father's a grocer," George Osborne said, who, though a little chap, was popular.


And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances. He made wonderful advances in scholastic learning. The superb Cuff himself, at whose condescension Dobbin could only blush and wonder, helped him on with his Latin verses; "coached" him in play-hours: carried him triumphantly out of the little-boy class into the middle-sized form; and even there got a fair place for him. It was discovered, that although dull at classical learning, at mathematics he was uncommonly quick. To the contentment of all he passed third in algebra, and got a French prize-book at the public Midsummer examination. You should have seen his mother's face when Telemaque (that delicious romance) was presented to him by the Doctor in the face of the whole school and the parents and company, with an inscription to Gulielmo Dobbin. All the boys clapped hands in token of applause and sympathy. His blushes, his stumbles, his awkwardness, and the number of feet which he crushed as he went back to his place, who shall describe or calculate? Old Dobbin, his father, who now respected him for the first time, gave him two guineas publicly; most of which he spent in a general tuck-out for the school: and he came back in a tail-coat after the holidays.

And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances. He made wonderful advances in learning. The superb Cuff himself helped him with his Latin verses, "coached" him in play-hours, and carried him triumphantly into the middle form.
It was discovered that although dull at classical learning, at mathematics he was uncommonly quick. He passed third in algebra, and got presented with a prize-book before the whole school. All the boys clapped, despite his blushes and stumbles; you should have seen his mother's face. Old Dobbin, his father, who now respected him for the first time, gave him two guineas, most of which he spent in tuck for the school: and he came back in a tail-coat after the holidays.


Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose that this happy change in all his circumstances arose from his own generous and manly disposition: he chose, from some perverseness, to attribute his good fortune to the sole agency and benevolence of little George Osborne, to whom henceforth he vowed such a love and affection as is only felt by children--such an affection, as we read in the charming fairy-book, uncouth Orson had for splendid young Valentine his conqueror. He flung himself down at little Osborne's feet, and loved him. Even before they were acquainted, he had admired Osborne in secret. Now he was his valet, his dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne to be the possessor of every perfection, to be the handsomest, the bravest, the most active, the cleverest, the most generous of created boys. He shared his money with him: bought him uncountable presents of knives, pencil-cases, gold seals, toffee, Little Warblers, and romantic books, with large coloured pictures of knights and robbers, in many of which latter you might read inscriptions to George Sedley Osborne, Esquire, from his attached friend William Dobbin--the which tokens of homage George received very graciously, as became his superior merit.
So that Lieutenant Osborne, when coming to Russell Square on the day of the Vauxhall party, said to the ladies, "Mrs. Sedley, Ma'am, I hope you have room; I've asked Dobbin of ours to come and dine here, and go with us to Vauxhall. He's almost as modest as Jos."
"Modesty! pooh," said the stout gentleman, casting a vainqueur look at Miss Sharp.

Dobbin modestly attributed all his good fortune to little George Osborne, to whom he vowed love and affection. He was his valet, his dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne to be perfect in every way, the handsomest, the bravest, the cleverest, the most generous of boys. He shared his money with him: bought him presents of knives, pencil-cases, toffee, and books - gifts which George received very graciously, as became his superior merit.
So Lieutenant Osborne, arriving at Russell Square on the day of the Vauxhall party, said to the ladies, "Mrs. Sedley, Ma'am, I've asked Dobbin of ours to come and dine here, and go with us to Vauxhall.


"He is--but you are incomparably more graceful, Sedley," Osborne added, laughing. "I met him at the Bedford, when I went to look for you; and I told him that Miss Amelia was come home, and that we were all bent on going out for a night's pleasuring; and that Mrs. Sedley had forgiven his breaking the punch-bowl at the child's party. Don't you remember the catastrophe, Ma'am, seven years ago?"
"Over Mrs. Flamingo's crimson silk gown," said good-natured Mrs. Sedley. "What a gawky it was! And his sisters are not much more graceful. Lady Dobbin was at Highbury last night with three of them. Such figures! my dears."

I met him at the Bedford, and told him that we were all going out; and that Mrs. Sedley had forgiven his breaking the punch-bowl at the child's party. Don't you remember the catastrophe, Ma'am, seven years ago?"
"Over Mrs. Flamingo's crimson silk gown," said good-natured Mrs. Sedley. "What a gawky! And his sisters are not much more graceful. Lady Dobbin was at Highbury last night with three of them. Such figures! my dears."


"The Alderman's very rich, isn't he?" Osborne said archly. "Don't you think one of the daughters would be a good spec for me, Ma'am?"
"You foolish creature! Who would take you, I should like to know, with your yellow face?"
"Mine a yellow face? Stop till you see Dobbin. Why, he had the yellow fever three times; twice at Nassau, and once at St. Kitts."

"His father the Alderman's very rich, isn't he?" Osborne said archly. "Don't you think one of the daughters would be a good match for me, Ma'am?"
"You foolish creature! Who would take you, I should like to know, with your yellow face?"
"Mine a yellow face? Wait till you see Dobbin. He had the yellow fever three times; twice at Nassau, and once at St. Kitts."


"Well, well; yours is quite yellow enough for us. Isn't it, Emmy?" Mrs. Sedley said: at which speech Miss Amelia only made a smile and a blush; and looking at Mr. George Osborne's pale interesting countenance, and those beautiful black, curling, shining whiskers, which the young gentleman himself regarded with no ordinary complacency, she thought in her little heart that in His Majesty's army, or in the wide world, there never was such a face or such a hero. "I don't care about Captain Dobbin's complexion," she said, "or about his awkwardness. I shall always like him, I know," her little reason being, that he was the friend and champion of George.
"There's not a finer fellow in the service," Osborne said, "nor a better officer, though he is not an Adonis, certainly." And he looked towards the glass himself with much naivete; and in so doing, caught Miss Sharp's eye fixed keenly upon him, at which he blushed a little, and Rebecca thought in her heart, "Ah, mon beau Monsieur! I think I have YOUR gauge"--the little artful minx!
That evening, when Amelia came tripping into the drawing-room in a white muslin frock, prepared for conquest at Vauxhall, singing like a lark, and as fresh as a rose--a very tall ungainly gentleman, with large hands and feet, and large ears, set off by a closely cropped head of black hair, and in the hideous military frogged coat and cocked hat of those times, advanced to meet her, and made her one of the clumsiest bows that was ever performed by a mortal.
This was no other than Captain William Dobbin, of His Majesty's Regiment of Foot, returned from yellow fever, in the West Indies, to which the fortune of the service had ordered his regiment, whilst so many of his gallant comrades were reaping glory in the Peninsula.

"Well, yours is quite yellow enough for us. Isn't it, Emmy?" Mrs. Sedley said. Amelia only smiled and blushed. Looking at George Osborne's pale, interesting face, and black, curling, shining whiskers, she thought that there never was such a face or such a hero.
"I don't care about Captain Dobbin's complexion," she said, "or his awkwardness. I shall always like him;" her reason being that he was the friend and champion of George.
"There's not a finer fellow in the army," Osborne said, "nor a better officer, though he is not an Adonis, certainly." And he looked towards the mirror; and caught Miss Sharp's eye fixed keenly upon him, at which he blushed a little.
Rebecca thought, "Ah, mon beau Monsieur! I think I have your measure."
That evening, when Amelia came tripping into the drawing-room in a white muslin frock, singing like a lark, and as fresh as a rose, a very tall ungainly gentleman, with large hands and feet, and large ears, set off by a closely cropped head of black hair, and wearing the hideous military frogged coat and cocked hat of those times, advanced to meet her, with a clumsy bow.
This was Captain William Dobbin, of His Majesty's ___th Regiment of Foot, returned from the West Indies, where his regiment had been ordered whilst many of his gallant comrades were reaping glory in the Peninsula.


He had arrived with a knock so very timid and quiet that it was inaudible to the ladies upstairs: otherwise, you may be sure Miss Amelia would never have been so bold as to come singing into the room. As it was, the sweet fresh little voice went right into the Captain's heart, and nestled there. When she held out her hand for him to shake, before he enveloped it in his own, he paused, and thought--"Well, is it possible--are you the little maid I remember in the pink frock, such a short time ago--the night I upset the punch-bowl, just after I was gazetted? Are you the little girl that George Osborne said should marry him? What a blooming young creature you seem, and what a prize the rogue has got!" All this he thought, before he took Amelia's hand into his own, and as he let his cocked hat fall.

He had arrived with a knock so timid that it was inaudible to the ladies upstairs: otherwise Amelia would never have come singing into the room. As it was, the sweet fresh little voice went right into the Captain's heart, and nestled there. When she held out her hand for him to shake, he paused, and thought, "Are you the little maid I remember in the pink frock, the night I upset the punch-bowl? The little girl that George Osborne said should marry him? What a prize the rogue has got!" All this he thought, before he took Amelia's hand.


His history since he left school, until the very moment when we have the pleasure of meeting him again, although not fully narrated, has yet, I think, been indicated sufficiently for an ingenious reader by the conversation in the last page. Dobbin, the despised grocer, was Alderman Dobbin--Alderman Dobbin was Colonel of the City Light Horse, then burning with military ardour to resist the French Invasion. Colonel Dobbin's corps, in which old Mr. Osborne himself was but an indifferent corporal, had been reviewed by the Sovereign and the Duke of York; and the colonel and alderman had been knighted. His son had entered the army: and young Osborne followed presently in the same regiment. They had served in the West Indies and in Canada. Their regiment had just come home, and the attachment of Dobbin to George Osborne was as warm and generous now as it had been when the two were schoolboys.

His history since he left school, has, I think, been indicated sufficiently for an ingenious reader. His father, the despised grocer, became Alderman Dobbin, and was then knighted. The son had entered the army: and young Osborne followed in the same regiment. They had served in the West Indies and in Canada. Dobbin's attachment to George Osborne was as warm now as it had been at school.


So these worthy people sat down to dinner presently. They talked about war and glory, and Boney and Lord Wellington, and the last Gazette. In those famous days every gazette had a victory in it, and the two gallant young men longed to see their own names in the glorious list, and cursed their unlucky fate to belong to a regiment which had been away from the chances of honour. Miss Sharp kindled with this exciting talk, but Miss Sedley trembled and grew quite faint as she heard it. Mr. Jos told several of his tiger-hunting stories, finished the one about Miss Cutler and Lance the surgeon; helped Rebecca to everything on the table, and himself gobbled and drank a great deal.
He sprang to open the door for the ladies, when they retired, with the most killing grace--and coming back to the table, filled himself bumper after bumper of claret, which he swallowed with nervous rapidity.
"He's priming himself," Osborne whispered to Dobbin, and at length the hour and the carriage arrived for Vauxhall.

So these worthy people sat down to dinner, and talked about war and glory, and Boney and Lord Wellington, and the last military Gazette. The two gallant young men longed to see their own names in that glorious list, and cursed their unlucky fate in belonging to a regiment which had been away from battle.
Miss Sharp kindled with this exciting talk, but Miss Sedley trembled and grew quite faint. Mr. Jos told several of his tiger-hunting stories, finished with the one about Miss Cutler and Lance the surgeon; helped Rebecca to everything on the table, and gobbled and drank a great deal.
He sprang to open the door for the ladies, when they retired; and returning to the table, filled bumper after bumper of claret, which he swallowed with nervous rapidity.
"He's priming himself," Osborne whispered to Dobbin, and at length the hour and the carriage arrived for Vauxhall.


It was one of the many causes for personal pride with which old Osborne chose to recreate himself that Sedley, his ancient rival, enemy, and benefactor, was in his last days so utterly defeated and humiliated as to be forced to accept pecuniary obligations at the hands of the man who had most injured and insulted him. The successful man of the world cursed the old pauper and relieved him from time to time. As he furnished George with money for his mother, he gave the boy to understand by hints, delivered in his brutal, coarse way, that George's maternal grandfather was but a wretched old bankrupt and dependant, and that John Sedley might thank the man to whom he already owed ever so much money for the aid which his generosity now chose to administer. George carried the pompous supplies to his mother and the shattered old widower whom it was now the main business of her life to tend and comfort. The little fellow patronized the feeble and disappointed old man.

Old Osborne was proud of the fact that Sedley, his enemy and benefactor, was so utterly defeated as to be forced to accept financial help from the man who had insulted him. Osborne cursed the old pauper and relieved him from time to time. And in his brutal, coarse way, he gave the boy to understand that John Sedley was a wretched old bankrupt who was indebted to his generosity. George carried the money to Amelia and her father, and patronized the feeble and disappointed old man.


It may have shown a want of "proper pride" in Amelia that she chose to accept these money benefits at the hands of her father's enemy. But proper pride and this poor lady had never had much acquaintance together. A disposition naturally simple and demanding protection; a long course of poverty and humility, of daily privations, and hard words, of kind offices and no returns, had been her lot ever since womanhood almost, or since her luckless marriage with George Osborne. You who see your betters bearing up under this shame every day, meekly suffering under the slights of fortune, gentle and unpitied, poor, and rather despised for their poverty, do you ever step down from your prosperity and wash the feet of these poor wearied beggars? The very thought of them is odious and low. "There must be classes--there must be rich and poor," Dives says, smacking his claret (it is well if he even sends the broken meat out to Lazarus sitting under the window). Very true; but think how mysterious and often unaccountable it is--that lottery of life which gives to this man the purple and fine linen and sends to the other rags for garments and dogs for comforters.

It may have shown a want of "proper pride" in Amelia that she chose to accept money from her father's enemy. But proper pride and this poor lady had never had much acquaintance. A long course of poverty and hard words, of kind acts and no returns, had been her lot. You who see your betters bearing up under this shame every day, meekly suffering, and despised for their poverty, do you ever step down from your prosperity and wash the feet of these poor weary beggars? How mysterious and unaccountable is that lottery of life which gives to one man fine clothes and riches and sends another rags.


So I must own that, without much repining, on the contrary with something akin to gratitude, Amelia took the crumbs that her father-in-law let drop now and then, and with them fed her own parent. Directly she understood it to be her duty, it was this young woman's nature (ladies, she is but thirty still, and we choose to call her a young woman even at that age) it was, I say, her nature to sacrifice herself and to fling all that she had at the feet of the beloved object. During what long thankless nights had she worked out her fingers for little Georgy whilst at home with her; what buffets, scorns, privations, poverties had she endured for father and mother! And in the midst of all these solitary resignations and unseen sacrifices, she did not respect herself any more than the world respected her, but I believe thought in her heart that she was a poor-spirited, despicable little creature, whose luck in life was only too good for her merits. O you poor women! O you poor secret martyrs and victims, whose life is a torture, who are stretched on racks in your bedrooms, and who lay your heads down on the block daily at the drawing-room table; every man who watches your pains, or peers into those dark places where the torture is administered to you, must pity you--and--and thank God that he has a beard. I recollect seeing, years ago, at the prisons for idiots and madmen at Bicetre, near Paris, a poor wretch bent down under the bondage of his imprisonment and his personal infirmity, to whom one of our party gave a halfpenny worth of snuff in a cornet or "screw" of paper. The kindness was too much for the poor epileptic creature. He cried in an anguish of delight and gratitude: if anybody gave you and me a thousand a year, or saved our lives, we could not be so affected. And so, if you properly tyrannize over a woman, you will find a ha'p'orth of kindness act upon her and bring tears into her eyes, as though you were an angel benefiting her.

So Amelia gratefully took the crumbs that her father-in-law let drop, and with them fed her own parent. It was her nature to sacrifice herself for the beloved object. During what long thankless nights had she worked out her fingers for little Georgy; what scorns and privations had she endured for father and mother! And in the midst of all these unseen sacrifices, she did not respect herself, but thought herself a poor-spirited, despicable little creature, who did not deserve any good fortune.
O you poor women! O you poor secret martyrs and victims, whose life is a torture, who lay your heads down on the block daily at the drawing-room table; every man who watches your pains must pity you - and thank God that he has a beard. If you properly tyrannize over a woman, you will find a hap'orth of kindness will bring tears into her eyes, as though you were an angel.


Some such boons as these were the best which Fortune allotted to poor little Amelia. Her life, begun not unprosperously, had come down to this--to a mean prison and a long, ignoble bondage. Little George visited her captivity sometimes and consoled it with feeble gleams of encouragement. Russell Square was the boundary of her prison: she might walk thither occasionally, but was always back to sleep in her cell at night; to perform cheerless duties; to watch by thankless sick-beds; to suffer the harassment and tyranny of querulous disappointed old age. How many thousands of people are there, women for the most part, who are doomed to endure this long slavery?--who are hospital nurses without wages--sisters of Charity, if you like, without the romance and the sentiment of sacrifice--who strive, fast, watch, and suffer, unpitied, and fade away ignobly and unknown.
The hidden and awful Wisdom which apportions the destinies of mankind is pleased so to humiliate and cast down the tender, good, and wise, and to set up the selfish, the foolish, or the wicked. Oh, be humble, my brother, in your prosperity! Be gentle with those who are less lucky, if not more deserving. Think, what right have you to be scornful, whose virtue is a deficiency of temptation, whose success may be a chance, whose rank may be an ancestor's accident, whose prosperity is very likely a satire.

Amelia's life had come down to this - to a mean prison and a long, ignoble bondage. Little George visited her captivity sometimes and consoled it. Russell Square was the boundary of her prison: she might walk there occasionally, but was always back in her cell at night, to watch by the thankless sick-beds of tyrannous old age. How many thousands of people, women for the most part, are doomed to endure this long slavery? - hospital nurses without wages, who strive, watch, and suffer, unpitied, and fade away unknown.
Oh, be humble, my brother, in your prosperity! Be gentle with those who are less lucky, if not more deserving. Think what right have you to be scornful, whose virtue is a lack of temptation, whose success may be chance, whose rank is an ancestor's accident.


They buried Amelia's mother in the churchyard at Brompton, upon just such a rainy, dark day as Amelia recollected when first she had been there to marry George. Her little boy sat by her side in pompous new sables. She remembered the old pew-woman and clerk. Her thoughts were away in other times as the parson read. But that she held George's hand in her own, perhaps she would have liked to change places with.... Then, as usual, she felt ashamed of her selfish thoughts and prayed inwardly to be strengthened to do her duty.

They buried Amelia's mother in the churchyard at Brompton, upon just such a rainy, dark day as when Amelia married George. Her little boy sat by her side in pompous new furs. Her thoughts were away in other times as the parson read. Except that she held George's hand, perhaps she would have liked to change places with.... Then she felt ashamed of her selfish thoughts and prayed to be strengthened to do her duty.


So she determined with all her might and strength to try and make her old father happy. She slaved, toiled, patched, and mended, sang and played backgammon, read out the newspaper, cooked dishes for old Sedley, walked him out sedulously into Kensington Gardens or the Brompton Lanes, listened to his stories with untiring smiles and affectionate hypocrisy, or sat musing by his side and communing with her own thoughts and reminiscences, as the old man, feeble and querulous, sunned himself on the garden benches and prattled about his wrongs or his sorrows. What sad, unsatisfactory thoughts those of the widow were! The children running up and down the slopes and broad paths in the gardens reminded her of George, who was taken from her; the first George was taken from her; her selfish, guilty love, in both instances, had been rebuked and bitterly chastised. She strove to think it was right that she should be so punished. She was such a miserable wicked sinner. She was quite alone in the world.
I know that the account of this kind of solitary imprisonment is insufferably tedious, unless there is some cheerful or humorous incident to enliven it--a tender gaoler, for instance, or a waggish commandant of the fortress, or a mouse to come out and play about Latude's beard and whiskers, or a subterranean passage under the castle, dug by Trenck with his nails and a toothpick: the historian has no such enlivening incident to relate in the narrative of Amelia's captivity. Fancy her, if you please, during this period, very sad, but always ready to smile when spoken to; in a very mean, poor, not to say vulgar position of life; singing songs, making puddings, playing cards, mending stockings, for her old father's benefit. So, never mind, whether she be a heroine or no; or you and I, however old, scolding, and bankrupt--may we have in our last days a kind soft shoulder on which to lean and a gentle hand to soothe our gouty old pillows.

So she determined to try and make her old father happy. She slaved, toiled, patched and mended, sang and played backgammon, read out the newspaper, cooked for old Sedley, walked out with him, listened to his stories with untiring smiles, or sat musing by his side as the querulous old man prattled about his wrongs. What sad thoughts the widow had! The children running up and down in the gardens reminded her of George, taken from her like the first George. Her selfish, guilty love, in both instances, had been rebuked and bitterly chastised. She strove to think it was right that she should be so punished. She was a miserable wicked sinner, alone in the world.
I know that the account of this kind of solitary imprisonment is insufferably tedious, unless there is some cheerful incident to enliven it - a tender gaoler, for instance, or a mouse come out to play, or a tunnel under the castle, dug by a toothpick; but Amelia's captivity had no such incident. Though very sad, she was always ready to smile when spoken to; singing songs, making puddings, playing cards, mending stockings, for her old father's benefit.
May we have in our last days a kind soft shoulder on which to lean and a gentle hand to soothe our pillows.


Old Sedley grew very fond of his daughter after his wife's death, and Amelia had her consolation in doing her duty by the old man.
But we are not going to leave these two people long in such a low and ungenteel station of life. Better days, as far as worldly prosperity went, were in store for both. Perhaps the ingenious reader has guessed who was the stout gentleman who called upon Georgy at his school in company with our old friend Major Dobbin. It was another old acquaintance returned to England, and at a time when his presence was likely to be of great comfort to his relatives there.
Major Dobbin having easily succeeded in getting leave from his good-natured commandant to proceed to Madras, and thence probably to Europe, on urgent private affairs, never ceased travelling night and day until he reached his journey's end, and had directed his march with such celerity that he arrived at Madras in a high fever. His servants who accompanied him brought him to the house of the friend with whom he had resolved to stay until his departure for Europe in a state of delirium; and it was thought for many, many days that he would never travel farther than the burying-ground of the church of St. George's, where the troops should fire a salvo over his grave, and where many a gallant officer lies far away from his home.

Old Sedley grew very fond of his daughter after his wife's death, and Amelia had her consolation in doing her duty by him.
But better days were in store for both. Perhaps the ingenious reader has guessed who was the stout gentleman who called upon Georgy with Major Dobbin.
The Major had easily succeeded in getting leave to go to Madras, and from there to Europe, on urgent private affairs, and had travelled so quickly that he arrived at Madras in a high fever. His servants brought him to a friend's house in a state of delirium; and it was thought for many days that he would never travel farther than the grave-yard.


Here, as the poor fellow lay tossing in his fever, the people who watched him might have heard him raving about Amelia. The idea that he should never see her again depressed him in his lucid hours. He thought his last day was come, and he made his solemn preparations for departure, setting his affairs in this world in order and leaving the little property of which he was possessed to those whom he most desired to benefit. The friend in whose house he was located witnessed his testament. He desired to be buried with a little brown hair-chain which he wore round his neck and which, if the truth must be known, he had got from Amelia's maid at Brussels, when the young widow's hair was cut off, during the fever which prostrated her after the death of George Osborne on the plateau at Mount St. John.
He recovered, rallied, relapsed again, having undergone such a process of blood-letting and calomel as showed the strength of his original constitution. He was almost a skeleton when they put him on board the Ramchunder East Indiaman, Captain Bragg, from Calcutta, touching at Madras, and so weak and prostrate that his friend who had tended him through his illness prophesied that the honest Major would never survive the voyage, and that he would pass some morning, shrouded in flag and hammock, over the ship's side, and carrying down to the sea with him the relic that he wore at his heart. But whether it was the sea air, or the hope which sprung up in him afresh, from the day that the ship spread her canvas and stood out of the roads towards home, our friend began to amend, and he was quite well (though as gaunt as a greyhound) before they reached the Cape. "Kirk will be disappointed of his majority this time," he said with a smile; "he will expect to find himself gazetted by the time the regiment reaches home." For it must be premised that while the Major was lying ill at Madras, having made such prodigious haste to go thither, the gallant --th, which had passed many years abroad, which after its return from the West Indies had been baulked of its stay at home by the Waterloo campaign, and had been ordered from Flanders to India, had received orders home; and the Major might have accompanied his comrades, had he chosen to wait for their arrival at Madras.

Here, as the poor fellow lay tossing in his fever, you might have heard him raving about Amelia. In his lucid hours, he thought his last day was come, and made solemn preparations for departure, leaving his little property to those whom he most desired to benefit. The friend in whose house he was staying witnessed his will. The Major desired to be buried with a little brown hair-chain which he wore round his neck and which he had got from Amelia's maid at Brussels, when the young widow's hair was cut off during her illness after her husband's death.
He recovered, rallied, and relapsed again. He was almost a skeleton when they put him on board the East Indiaman ship, and so weak that the friend who had tended him through his illness thought that the honest Major would never survive the voyage. But whether it was the sea air, or the hope which sprung up in him afresh, from the day that the ship spread her sails and set out towards home, Dobbin began to amend, and he was quite well (though as gaunt as a greyhound) before they reached the Cape.


Perhaps he was not inclined to put himself in his exhausted state again under the guardianship of Glorvina. "I think Miss O'Dowd would have done for me," he said laughingly to a fellow-passenger, "if we had had her on board, and when she had sunk me, she would have fallen upon you, depend upon it, and carried you in as a prize to Southampton, Jos, my boy."
For indeed it was no other than our stout friend who was also a passenger on board the Ramchunder. He had passed ten years in Bengal. Constant dinners, tiffins, pale ale and claret, the prodigious labour of cutcherry, and the refreshment of brandy-pawnee which he was forced to take there, had their effect upon Waterloo Sedley. A voyage to Europe was pronounced necessary for him--and having served his full time in India and had fine appointments which had enabled him to lay by a considerable sum of money, he was free to come home and stay with a good pension, or to return and resume that rank in the service to which his seniority and his vast talents entitled him.

"I think Miss O'Dowd would have done for me if we had her on board," he said laughingly to his companion, "and when she had sunk me, she would have fallen upon you, depend upon it, and carried you as a prize to Southampton, Jos, my boy."
For indeed it was no other than our stout Jos who was with him. He had passed ten years in Bengal. Constant dinners, tiffins, pale ale and claret had their effect upon Waterloo Sedley. A voyage to Europe was pronounced necessary for his health - and having served his full time in India and laid by a considerable sum of money, he was free to come home and stay with a good pension, or to return and resume a high rank in the service.


He was rather thinner than when we last saw him, but had gained in majesty and solemnity of demeanour. He had resumed the mustachios to which his services at Waterloo entitled him, and swaggered about on deck in a magnificent velvet cap with a gold band and a profuse ornamentation of pins and jewellery about his person. He took breakfast in his cabin and dressed as solemnly to appear on the quarter-deck as if he were going to turn out for Bond Street, or the Course at Calcutta. He brought a native servant with him, who was his valet and pipe-bearer and who wore the Sedley crest in silver on his turban. That oriental menial had a wretched life under the tyranny of Jos Sedley. Jos was as vain of his person as a woman, and took as long a time at his toilette as any fading beauty. The youngsters among the passengers, Young Chaffers of the 150th, and poor little Ricketts, coming home after his third fever, used to draw out Sedley at the cuddy-table and make him tell prodigious stories about himself and his exploits against tigers and Napoleon. He was great when he visited the Emperor's tomb at Longwood, when to these gentlemen and the young officers of the ship, Major Dobbin not being by, he described the whole battle of Waterloo and all but announced that Napoleon never would have gone to Saint Helena at all but for him, Jos Sedley.

He was rather thinner than when we last saw him, but had gained in majesty. He swaggered about on deck in a magnificent velvet cap with a gold band and a profusion of jewellery. He brought a native servant who wore the Sedley crest in silver on his turban. The young soldiers among the passengers used to draw out Sedley and make him tell prodigious stories about himself and his exploits against tigers and Napoleon. When they passed Saint Helena, Major Dobbin not being nearby, Jos described the battle of Waterloo and implied that Napoleon never would have gone to Saint Helena but for Jos Sedley.


After leaving St. Helena he became very generous, disposing of a great quantity of ship stores, claret, preserved meats, and great casks packed with soda-water, brought out for his private delectation. There were no ladies on board; the Major gave the pas of precedency to the civilian, so that he was the first dignitary at table, and treated by Captain Bragg and the officers of the Ramchunder with the respect which his rank warranted. He disappeared rather in a panic during a two-days' gale, in which he had the portholes of his cabin battened down, and remained in his cot reading the Washerwoman of Finchley Common, left on board the Ramchunder by the Right Honourable the Lady Emily Hornblower, wife of the Rev. Silas Hornblower, when on their passage out to the Cape, where the Reverend gentleman was a missionary; but, for common reading, he had brought a stock of novels and plays which he lent to the rest of the ship, and rendered himself agreeable to all by his kindness and condescension.
Many and many a night as the ship was cutting through the roaring dark sea, the moon and stars shining overhead and the bell singing out the watch, Mr. Sedley and the Major would sit on the quarter-deck of the vessel talking about home, as the Major smoked his cheroot and the civilian puffed at the hookah which his servant prepared for him.

After leaving St. Helena, he disposed of a great quantity of claret, preserved meats, and soda-water. He disappeared in a panic during a two-days' gale, in which he had the portholes of his cabin battened down; but in general he made himself agreeable to all by his kindness and condescension.
Many a night as the ship was cutting through the roaring dark sea, the moon shining overhead and the bell singing out the watch, Mr. Sedley and the Major would sit on the quarter-deck talking and smoking.


In these conversations it was wonderful with what perseverance and ingenuity Major Dobbin would manage to bring the talk round to the subject of Amelia and her little boy. Jos, a little testy about his father's misfortunes and unceremonious applications to him, was soothed down by the Major, who pointed out the elder's ill fortunes and old age. He would not perhaps like to live with the old couple, whose ways and hours might not agree with those of a younger man, accustomed to different society (Jos bowed at this compliment); but, the Major pointed out, how advantageous it would be for Jos Sedley to have a house of his own in London, and not a mere bachelor's establishment as before; how his sister Amelia would be the very person to preside over it; how elegant, how gentle she was, and of what refined good manners. He recounted stories of the success which Mrs. George Osborne had had in former days at Brussels, and in London, where she was much admired by people of very great fashion; and he then hinted how becoming it would be for Jos to send Georgy to a good school and make a man of him, for his mother and her parents would be sure to spoil him. In a word, this artful Major made the civilian promise to take charge of Amelia and her unprotected child. He did not know as yet what events had happened in the little Sedley family, and how death had removed the mother, and riches had carried off George from Amelia. But the fact is that every day and always, this love-smitten and middle-aged gentleman was thinking about Mrs. Osborne, and his whole heart was bent upon doing her good. He coaxed, wheedled, cajoled, and complimented Jos Sedley with a perseverance and cordiality of which he was not aware himself, very likely; but some men who have unmarried sisters or daughters even, may remember how uncommonly agreeable gentlemen are to the male relations when they are courting the females; and perhaps this rogue of a Dobbin was urged by a similar hypocrisy.

Major Dobbin would manage to bring the talk round to the subject of Amelia and her son.
Jos, a little testy about his father's applications for money, was soothed by the Major, who pointed out the elder's ill fortunes. Perhaps Jos would not like to live with the old couple; but the Major pointed out how advantageous it would be for Jos to have his own house in London, how his sister Amelia would be the very person to preside over it; how elegant, gentle and refined she was. He told Jos how much admired she had formerly been by people of great fashion; and he then hinted how becoming it would be for Jos to send Georgy to a good school.
The Major did not know yet what events had happened in the little Sedley family, and how riches had carried off George from Amelia. But the fact is that every day, this love-smitten gentleman was thinking about Mrs. Osborne, and bent upon doing her good. He coaxed and complimented Jos Sedley perseveringly to this end.


The truth is, when Major Dobbin came on board the Ramchumder, very sick, and for the three days she lay in the Madras Roads, he did not begin to rally, nor did even the appearance and recognition of his old acquaintance, Mr. Sedley, on board much cheer him, until after a conversation which they had one day, as the Major was laid languidly on the deck. He said then he thought he was doomed; he had left a little something to his godson in his will, and he trusted Mrs. Osborne would remember him kindly and be happy in the marriage she was about to make. "Married? not the least," Jos answered; "he had heard from her: she made no mention of the marriage, and by the way, it was curious, she wrote to say that Major Dobbin was going to be married, and hoped that HE would be happy." What were the dates of Sedley's letters from Europe? The civilian fetched them. They were two months later than the Major's; and the ship's surgeon congratulated himself upon the treatment adopted by him towards his new patient, who had been consigned to shipboard by the Madras practitioner with very small hopes indeed; for, from that day, the very day that he changed the draught, Major Dobbin began to mend. And thus it was that deserving officer, Captain Kirk, was disappointed of his majority.

The truth is, when Major Dobbin came on board very sick, he did not begin to rally until a conversation which they had one day, as the Major was laid languidly on the deck. He said that he had left a little something to his godson in his will, and he trusted Mrs. Osborne would remember him kindly and be happy in the marriage she was about to make.
"Marry? not at all," Jos answered. "Her latest letter made no mention of marriage, and by the way, she wrote to say that Major Dobbin was going to be married, and hoped that he would be happy."
From that day, Dobbin began to mend.


After they passed St. Helena, Major Dobbin's gaiety and strength was such as to astonish all his fellow passengers. He larked with the midshipmen, played single-stick with the mates, ran up the shrouds like a boy, sang a comic song one night to the amusement of the whole party assembled over their grog after supper, and rendered himself so gay, lively, and amiable that even Captain Bragg, who thought there was nothing in his passenger, and considered he was a poor-spirited feller at first, was constrained to own that the Major was a reserved but well-informed and meritorious officer. "He ain't got distangy manners, dammy," Bragg observed to his first mate; "he wouldn't do at Government House, Roper, where his Lordship and Lady William was as kind to me, and shook hands with me before the whole company, and asking me at dinner to take beer with him, before the Commander-in-Chief himself; he ain't got manners, but there's something about him--" And thus Captain Bragg showed that he possessed discrimination as a man, as well as ability as a commander.
But a calm taking place when the Ramchunder was within ten days' sail of England, Dobbin became so impatient and ill-humoured as to surprise those comrades who had before admired his vivacity and good temper. He did not recover until the breeze sprang up again, and was in a highly excited state when the pilot came on board. Good God, how his heart beat as the two friendly spires of Southampton came in sight.

After they passed St. Helena, his gaiety and strength astonished his fellow passengers. He larked with the midshipmen, ran up the shrouds like a boy, sang a comic song one night to the amusement of the whole party, and was generally lively and amiable.
But during a calm, only ten days' sail from England, Dobbin became so impatient and ill-humoured as to surprise his comrades. He did not recover until the breeze sprang up again, and was in a highly excited state when the friendly spires of Southampton came in sight.


Friend Rawdon drove on then to Mr. Moss's mansion in Cursitor Street, and was duly inducted into that dismal place of hospitality. Morning was breaking over the cheerful house-tops of Chancery Lane as the rattling cab woke up the echoes there. A little pink-eyed Jew-boy, with a head as ruddy as the rising morn, let the party into the house, and Rawdon was welcomed to the ground-floor apartments by Mr. Moss, his travelling companion and host, who cheerfully asked him if he would like a glass of something warm after his drive.
The Colonel was not so depressed as some mortals would be, who, quitting a palace and a placens uxor, find themselves barred into a spunging-house; for, if the truth must be told, he had been a lodger at Mr. Moss's establishment once or twice before. We have not thought it necessary in the previous course of this narrative to mention these trivial little domestic incidents: but the reader may be assured that they can't unfrequently occur in the life of a man who lives on nothing a year.
Upon his first visit to Mr. Moss, the Colonel, then a bachelor, had been liberated by the generosity of his aunt; on the second mishap, little Becky, with the greatest spirit and kindness, had borrowed a sum of money from Lord Southdown and had coaxed her husband's creditor (who was her shawl, velvet-gown, lace pocket-handkerchief, trinket, and gim-crack purveyor, indeed) to take a portion of the sum claimed and Rawdon's promissory note for the remainder: so on both these occasions the capture and release had been conducted with the utmost gallantry on all sides, and Moss and the Colonel were therefore on the very best of terms.

Rawdon drove on to Mr. Moss the bailiff's mansion in Cursitor Street, and was duly introduced into that dismal place. Morning was breaking over the house-tops of Chancery Lane as the rattling cab woke up the echoes there. Rawdon was welcomed in by Mr. Moss, his travelling companion and host, who cheerfully asked him if he would like a glass of something warm after his drive.
The Colonel was not so depressed as some men would be to find themselves shut in a spunging-house, to be confined there until payment was arranged; for in truth, he had been a lodger at Mr. Moss's once or twice before. We have not thought it necessary to mention these trivial little incidents: but they must frequently occur in the life of a man who lives on nothing a year.
Upon his first visit to Mr. Moss, the Colonel, then a bachelor, had been freed by the generosity of his aunt; on the second mishap, little Becky had borrowed money from Lord Southdown and had coaxed her husband's creditor (who was her shawl and gown-seller) to take Rawdon's promissory note for the rest. So on both these occasions the capture and release had been conducted with gallantry on all sides, and Moss and the Colonel were therefore on the very best of terms.


"You'll find your old bed, Colonel, and everything comfortable," that gentleman said, "as I may honestly say. You may be pretty sure its kep aired, and by the best of company, too. It was slep in the night afore last by the Honorable Capting Famish, of the Fiftieth Dragoons, whose Mar took him out, after a fortnight, jest to punish him, she said. But, Law bless you, I promise you, he punished my champagne, and had a party ere every night--reglar tip-top swells, down from the clubs and the West End--Capting Ragg, the Honorable Deuceace, who lives in the Temple, and some fellers as knows a good glass of wine, I warrant you. I've got a Doctor of Diwinity upstairs, five gents in the coffee-room, and Mrs. Moss has a tably-dy-hoty at half-past five, and a little cards or music afterwards, when we shall be most happy to see you."

"You'll find your old bed, Colonel, and everything comfortable," Mr. Moss said. "It's kep aired, and by the best of company, too. It was slep in the night afore last by the Honourable Capting Famish, of the Fiftieth Dragoons. I've got a Doctor of Diwinity upstairs, five gents in the coffee-room, and Mrs. Moss has a tably-dy-hoty at half-past five, and a little cards or music afterwards, when we shall be most happy to see you."


"I'll ring when I want anything," said Rawdon and went quietly to his bedroom. He was an old soldier, we have said, and not to be disturbed by any little shocks of fate. A weaker man would have sent off a letter to his wife on the instant of his capture. "But what is the use of disturbing her night's rest?" thought Rawdon. "She won't know whether I am in my room or not. It will be time enough to write to her when she has had her sleep out, and I have had mine. It's only a hundred-and-seventy, and the deuce is in it if we can't raise that." And so, thinking about little Rawdon (whom he would not have know that he was in such a queer place), the Colonel turned into the bed lately occupied by Captain Famish and fell asleep. It was ten o'clock when he woke up, and the ruddy-headed youth brought him, with conscious pride, a fine silver dressing-case, wherewith he might perform the operation of shaving.

"I'll ring when I want anything," said Rawdon, and went quietly to his bedroom. He was an old soldier, not to be shaken by little shocks of fate. A weaker man would have instantly sent a letter to his wife.
"But what is the use of disturbing her night's rest?" he thought. "Time enough to write to her when she has had her sleep. It's only a hundred-and-seventy pounds, and the deuce is in it if we can't raise that." And so, thinking about little Rawdon, the Colonel turned into the bed lately occupied by Captain Famish and fell asleep.
It was ten o'clock when he woke up. A youth brought him a fine silver dressing-case, so that he might shave.


Indeed Mr. Moss's house, though somewhat dirty, was splendid throughout. There were dirty trays, and wine-coolers en permanence on the sideboard, huge dirty gilt cornices, with dingy yellow satin hangings to the barred windows which looked into Cursitor Street--vast and dirty gilt picture frames surrounding pieces sporting and sacred, all of which works were by the greatest masters--and fetched the greatest prices, too, in the bill transactions, in the course of which they were sold and bought over and over again. The Colonel's breakfast was served to him in the same dingy and gorgeous plated ware. Miss Moss, a dark-eyed maid in curl-papers, appeared with the teapot, and, smiling, asked the Colonel how he had slep? And she brought him in the Morning Post, with the names of all the great people who had figured at Lord Steyne's entertainment the night before. It contained a brilliant account of the festivities and of the beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's admirable personifications.
After a lively chat with this lady (who sat on the edge of the breakfast table in an easy attitude displaying the drapery of her stocking and an ex-white satin shoe, which was down at heel), Colonel Crawley called for pens and ink, and paper, and being asked how many sheets, chose one which was brought to him between Miss Moss's own finger and thumb. Many a sheet had that dark-eyed damsel brought in; many a poor fellow had scrawled and blotted hurried lines of entreaty and paced up and down that awful room until his messenger brought back the reply. Poor men always use messengers instead of the post. Who has not had their letters, with the wafers wet, and the announcement that a person is waiting in the hall?

Indeed Mr. Moss's house, though somewhat dirty, was splendid throughout. There were dirty gilt cornices, with dingy yellow satin hangings to the barred windows; vast and dirty gilt picture frames surrounded works by the greatest masters - works which were sold and bought over and over again. The Colonel's breakfast was served to him in dingy and gorgeous silver-plated ware. Miss Moss, a dark-eyed maid in curl-papers, appeared with the teapot, and, smiling, asked the Colonel how he had slep? She brought him the Morning Post, which contained a brilliant account of Lord Steyne's festivities and of the beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Rawdon Crawley.
After a lively chat with this lady, Colonel Crawley called for pens and paper, and


Now on the score of his application, Rawdon had not many misgivings.
DEAR BECKY, (Rawdon wrote)
I HOPE YOU SLEPT WELL. Don't be FRIGHTENED if I don't bring you in your COFFY. Last night as I was coming home smoaking, I met with an ACCADENT. I was NABBED by Moss of Cursitor Street--from whose GILT AND SPLENDID PARLER I write this--the same that had me this time two years. Miss Moss brought in my tea--she is grown very FAT, and, as usual, had her STOCKENS DOWN AT HEAL.
It's Nathan's business--a hundred-and-fifty--with costs, hundred-and-seventy. Please send me my desk and some CLOTHS--I'm in pumps and a white tye (something like Miss M's stockings)--I've seventy in it. And as soon as you get this, Drive to Nathan's--offer him seventy-five down, and ASK HIM TO RENEW--say I'll take wine--we may as well have some dinner sherry; but not PICTURS, they're too dear.

 wrote without many misgivings.
DEAR BECKY,
I HOPE YOU SLEPT WELL. Don't be FRIGHTENED if I don't bring you in your COFFY. Last night as I was coming home smoaking, I met with an ACCADENT. I was NABBED by Moss of Cursitor Street - the same that had me two years ago. Miss Moss brought in my tea - she is grown very FAT, and had her STOCKENS DOWN AT HEAL.
It's Nathan's business - a hundred-and-seventy. Please send me some CLOATHES and my desk - I've seventy in it. And as soon as you get this, Drive to Nathan's - offer him seventy-five down, and ASK HIM TO RENEW.


If he won't stand it. Take my ticker and such of your things as you can SPARE, and send them to Balls--we must, of coarse, have the sum to-night. It won't do to let it stand over, as to-morrow's Sunday; the beds here are not very CLEAN, and there may be other things out against me--I'm glad it an't Rawdon's Saturday for coming home. God bless you.
Yours in haste, R. C. P.S. Make haste and come.
This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched by one of the messengers who are always hanging about Mr. Moss's establishment, and Rawdon, having seen him depart, went out in the court-yard and smoked his cigar with a tolerably easy mind--in spite of the bars overhead--for Mr. Moss's court-yard is railed in like a cage, lest the gentlemen who are boarding with him should take a fancy to escape from his hospitality.
Three hours, he calculated, would be the utmost time required, before Becky should arrive and open his prison doors, and he passed these pretty cheerfully in smoking, in reading the paper, and in the coffee-room with an acquaintance, Captain Walker, who happened to be there, and with whom he cut for sixpences for some hours, with pretty equal luck on either side.
But the day passed away and no messenger returned--no Becky. Mr. Moss's tably-dy-hoty was served at the appointed hour of half-past five, when such of the gentlemen lodging in the house as could afford to pay for the banquet came and partook of it in the splendid front parlour before described, and with which Mr. Crawley's temporary lodging communicated, when Miss M. (Miss Hem, as her papa called her) appeared without the curl-papers of the morning, and Mrs. Hem did the honours of a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips, of which the Colonel ate with a very faint appetite. Asked whether he would "stand" a bottle of champagne for the company, he consented, and the ladies drank to his 'ealth, and Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner, "looked towards him."

If he won't stand it, take my ticker and anythings as you can SPARE, and send them to the pawnbroker. We must, of coarse, have the sum to-night. We can't let it stand over, as tomorrow's Sunday; the beds here are not very CLEAN, and there may be other things out against me. I'm glad it an't Rawdon's Saturday for coming home. God bless you.
Yours in haste, R. C.
P.S. Make haste and come.
This letter was sent by a messenger, and Rawdon, having seen him depart, went into the courtyard and smoked his cigar with a tolerably easy mind.
Three hours, he calculated, would be the most time required before Becky should arrive and open his prison doors; and he passed these pretty cheerfully in smoking, in reading the paper, and in the coffee-room with an acquaintance, Captain Walker.
But the day passed and no messenger returned - no Becky. Mr. Moss's tably-dy-hoty was served at half-past five, when such of the gentlemen lodgers as could afford the banquet enjoyed it in the splendid front parlour. Miss M. (Miss Hem, as her papa called her) appeared without her curl-papers, and Mrs. Hem served a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips, which the Colonel ate with a very faint appetite.


In the midst of this repast, however, the doorbell was heard--young Moss of the ruddy hair rose up with the keys and answered the summons, and coming back, told the Colonel that the messenger had returned with a bag, a desk and a letter, which he gave him. "No ceramony, Colonel, I beg," said Mrs. Moss with a wave of her hand, and he opened the letter rather tremulously. It was a beautiful letter, highly scented, on a pink paper, and with a light green seal.
MON PAUVRE CHER PETIT, (Mrs. Crawley wrote)
I could not sleep ONE WINK for thinking of what had become of my odious old monstre, and only got to rest in the morning after sending for Mr. Blench (for I was in a fever), who gave me a composing draught and left orders with Finette that I should be disturbed ON NO ACCOUNT. So that my poor old man's messenger, who had bien mauvaise mine Finette says, and sentoit le Genievre, remained in the hall for some hours waiting my bell. You may fancy my state when I read your poor dear old ill-spelt letter.

In the midst of this meal, however, the doorbell was heard. The messenger had returned with a bag, a desk and a letter. "No ceremony, Colonel, I beg," said Mrs. Moss with a wave of her hand, and he opened the letter rather tremulously. It was a beautiful letter, highly scented, on pink paper.
MON PAUVRE CHER PETIT (Mrs. Crawley wrote)
I could not sleep ONE WINK for thinking of what had become of my odious old monstre, and only got to rest in the morning after sending for Mr. Blench (for I was in a fever), who gave me a draught and left orders with Finette that I should be disturbed ON NO ACCOUNT. So that your messenger remained in the hall for some hours waiting my bell. You may fancy my state when I read your poor dear old ill-spelt letter.


Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon as I was dressed (though I couldn't drink a drop of chocolate--I assure you I couldn't without my monstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre a terre to Nathan's. I saw him--I wept--I cried--I fell at his odious knees. Nothing would mollify the horrid man. He would have all the money, he said, or keep my poor monstre in prison. I drove home with the intention of paying that triste visite chez mon oncle (when every trinket I have should be at your disposal though they would not fetch a hundred pounds, for some, you know, are with ce cher oncle already), and found Milor there with the Bulgarian old sheep-faced monster, who had come to compliment me upon last night's performances. Paddington came in, too, drawling and lisping and twiddling his hair; so did Champignac, and his chef--everybody with foison of compliments and pretty speeches--plaguing poor me, who longed to be rid of them, and was thinking every moment of the time of mon pauvre prisonnier.
When they were gone, I went down on my knees to Milor; told him we were going to pawn everything, and begged and prayed him to give me two hundred pounds. He pish'd and psha'd in a fury--told me not to be such a fool as to pawn--and said he would see whether he could lend me the money. At last he went away, promising that he would send it me in the morning: when I will bring it to my poor old monster with a kiss from his affectionate
BECKY

Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon as I was dressed (though I couldn't drink a drop of chocolate), I drove like the wind to Nathan's. I saw him - I wept - I cried - I fell at his odious knees. Nothing would mollify the horrid man. He would have all the money, he said, or keep my poor monstre in prison.
I drove home with the intention of paying that visit to the pawnbroker (when every trinket I have should be at your disposal though they would not fetch a hundred pounds), and found Milor there, with the old Bulgarian sheep-face, who had come to compliment me on last night's performance. I went down on my knees to Milor; told him we were going to pawn everything, and begged him to give me two hundred pounds. He pish'd and psha'd in a fury - told me not to be such a fool as to pawn - and said he would lend me the money. He promised he would send it me tomorrow morning: when I will bring it to my poor old monster with a kiss from his affectionate
BECKY


I am writing in bed. Oh I have such a headache and such a heartache!


When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so red and looked so savage that the company at the table d'hote easily perceived that bad news had reached him. All his suspicions, which he had been trying to banish, returned upon him. She could not even go out and sell her trinkets to free him. She could laugh and talk about compliments paid to her, whilst he was in prison. Who had put him there? Wenham had walked with him. Was there.... He could hardly bear to think of what he suspected. Leaving the room hurriedly, he ran into his own--opened his desk, wrote two hurried lines, which he directed to Sir Pitt or Lady Crawley, and bade the messenger carry them at once to Gaunt Street, bidding him to take a cab, and promising him a guinea if he was back in an hour.

When Rawdon read over this letter, he looked so red and savage that the company saw that bad news had reached him. All his suspicions returned. She would not even go out and sell her trinkets to free him. She could laugh, whilst he was in prison. Who had put him there? Wenham had walked with him. Was there.... he could hardly bear to think of what he suspected.
He hurried into his room, opened his desk, wrote two lines, which he directed to Sir Pitt or Lady Crawley, and bade the messenger deliver them at once.


In the note he besought his dear brother and sister, for the sake of God, for the sake of his dear child and his honour, to come to him and relieve him from his difficulty. He was in prison, he wanted a hundred pounds to set him free--he entreated them to come to him.
He went back to the dining-room after dispatching his messenger and called for more wine. He laughed and talked with a strange boisterousness, as the people thought. Sometimes he laughed madly at his own fears and went on drinking for an hour, listening all the while for the carriage which was to bring his fate back.
At the expiration of that time, wheels were heard whirling up to the gate--the young janitor went out with his gate-keys. It was a lady whom he let in at the bailiff's door.
"Colonel Crawley," she said, trembling very much. He, with a knowing look, locked the outer door upon her--then unlocked and opened the inner one, and calling out, "Colonel, you're wanted," led her into the back parlour, which he occupied.
Rawdon came in from the dining-parlour where all those people were carousing, into his back room; a flare of coarse light following him into the apartment where the lady stood, still very nervous.

In the note he begged his dear brother and sister, for the sake of his child and his honour, to relieve him from his difficulty. He was in prison, he needed a hundred pounds to set him free - he entreated them to come.
Then he went back to the dining-room and called for more wine. He laughed and talked with a strange boisterousness, and went on drinking for an hour, listening all the while for a carriage.
At the end of that time, wheels were heard whirling up to the gate. The janitor led a lady into the back parlour, and called, "Colonel, you're wanted."
Rawdon came from the dining-room, a flare of coarse light following him into the apartment where the lady stood, very nervous.


"It is I, Rawdon," she said in a timid voice, which she strove to render cheerful. "It is Jane." Rawdon was quite overcome by that kind voice and presence. He ran up to her--caught her in his arms--gasped out some inarticulate words of thanks and fairly sobbed on her shoulder. She did not know the cause of his emotion.

"It is I, Rawdon," she said timidly. "It is Jane."
Rawdon was quite overcome by that kind voice. He ran up - caught her in his arms - gasped out some inarticulate words of thanks and fairly sobbed on her shoulder. She did not know why.


The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhaps to the disappointment of that gentleman, who had counted on having the Colonel as his guest over Sunday at least; and Jane, with beaming smiles and happiness in her eyes, carried away Rawdon from the bailiff's house, and they went homewards in the cab in which she had hastened to his release. "Pitt was gone to a parliamentary dinner," she said, "when Rawdon's note came, and so, dear Rawdon, I--I came myself"; and she put her kind hand in his. Perhaps it was well for Rawdon Crawley that Pitt was away at that dinner. Rawdon thanked his sister a hundred times, and with an ardour of gratitude which touched and almost alarmed that soft-hearted woman. "Oh," said he, in his rude, artless way, "you--you don't know how I'm changed since I've known you, and--and little Rawdy. I--I'd like to change somehow. You see I want--I want--to be--" He did not finish the sentence, but she could interpret it. And that night after he left her, and as she sat by her own little boy's bed, she prayed humbly for that poor way-worn sinner.

The bills were quickly settled; Jane happily carried Rawdon away from the bailiff's house, and they went homewards in a cab.
"Pitt was gone to a parliamentary dinner," she said, "when the note came, and so, dear Rawdon, I came myself;" and she put her kind hand in his. Rawdon thanked his sister a hundred times, with an ardour of gratitude which touched and almost alarmed her.
"Oh," said he, "you don't know how I'm changed since I've known you, and - and little Rawdy. You see I want - I want - to be-" He did not finish the sentence, but she could interpret it. And that night after he left her, as she sat by her little boy's bed, she prayed humbly for Rawdon.


Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night. He ran across the streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the light from the rooms on his pale face.

On leaving her, Rawdon walked home rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night. He ran across the streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time.


He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball-dress in which he had been captured the night before. He went silently up the stairs, leaning against the banisters at the stair-head. Nobody was stirring in the house besides--all the servants had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within--laughter and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the night before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava!"--it was Lord Steyne's.

Then he took out his key and let himself into the house. He could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He went silently up the stairs, leaning against the banisters. Nobody was stirring in the house besides - all the servants had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the night before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava!" - it was Lord Steyne.


Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a dinner was laid out--and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging over the sofa on which Becky sat. The wretched woman was in a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings, and the brilliants on her breast which Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing over it to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome her husband; and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks.
He, too, attempted a laugh--and came forward holding out his hand. "What, come back! How d'ye do, Crawley?" he said, the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin at the intruder.

Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a dinner was laid out. Steyne was hanging over the sofa on which Becky sat. She was brilliantly dressed, her arms and fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings, and the diamonds on her breast which Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next instant she tried a smile, as if to welcome her husband; and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks.
He, too, attempted a laugh - and came forward holding out his hand.
"What, come back! How d'ye do, Crawley?" he said, the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin.


There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling herself before him. "I am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before God, I am innocent." She clung hold of his coat, of his hands; her own were all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles. "I am innocent. Say I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne.

There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling herself before him.
"I am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before God, I am innocent." She clutched at his coat, his hands; her own were covered with serpents, rings, and baubles. "Say I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne.


He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furious with the wife as with the husband. "You innocent! Damn you," he screamed out. "You innocent! Why every trinket you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you thousands of pounds, which this fellow has spent and for which he has sold you. Innocent, by ----! You're as innocent as your mother, the ballet-girl, and your husband the bully. Don't think to frighten me as you have done others. Make way, sir, and let me pass"; and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and, with flame in his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other would give way.

But he thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furious with the wife as with the husband.
"You, innocent! Damn you," he screamed out. "You, innocent! Why, every trinket you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you thousands of pounds, which this bullying fellow has sold you for. Innocent, by ___! Don't think to frighten me. Make way, sir, and let me pass."
Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and with flame in his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other would give way.


But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him by the neckcloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed and bent under his arm. "You lie, you dog!" said Rawdon. "You lie, you coward and villain!" And he struck the Peer twice over the face with his open hand and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trembling before him. She admired her husband, strong, brave, and victorious.
"Come here," he said. She came up at once.

But Rawdon sprang out and seized him by the neckcloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed and bent under his arm.
"You lie, you dog!" said Rawdon. "You coward and villain!" And he struck the Marquis twice over the face with his open hand and flung him bleeding to the ground.
It was all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood trembling before him. She admired her husband, strong, brave, and victorious.
"Come here," he said. She came up at once.


"Take off those things." She began, trembling, pulling the jewels from her arms, and the rings from her shaking fingers, and held them all in a heap, quivering and looking up at him. "Throw them down," he said, and she dropped them. He tore the diamond ornament out of her breast and flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day.

"Take off those things." Trembling, she pulled the jewels from her arms, and the rings from her shaking fingers, and held them in a heap.
"Throw them down," he said, and she dropped them. He tore the diamond ornament from her breast and flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day.


"Come upstairs," Rawdon said to his wife. "Don't kill me, Rawdon," she said. He laughed savagely. "I want to see if that man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he given you any?"
"No," said Rebecca, "that is--"
"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they went out together.

"Come upstairs," Rawdon told his wife.
"Don't kill me, Rawdon," she said.
He laughed savagely. "I want to see if that man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he given you any?"
"No," said Rebecca, "that is-"
"Give me your keys."


Rebecca gave him all the keys but one, and she was in hopes that he would not have remarked the absence of that. It belonged to the little desk which Amelia had given her in early days, and which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery of their contents here and there, and at last he found the desk. The woman was forced to open it. It contained papers, love-letters many years old--all sorts of small trinkets and woman's memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with bank-notes. Some of these were dated ten years back, too, and one was quite a fresh one--a note for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne had given her.
"Did he give you this?" Rawdon said.
"Yes," Rebecca answered.

Rebecca gave him all the keys but one, hoping he would not notice its absence. It belonged to the little desk which Amelia had given her, and which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the contents here and there, and at last he found the desk. She was forced to open it. It contained papers, love-letters many years old - small trinkets and woman's memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with bank-notes. Some of these were dated ten years back, and one was quite fresh - a note for a thousand pounds from Lord Steyne.
"Did he give you this?" Rawdon said.
"Yes," she answered.


"I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said (for day had dawned again, and many hours had passed in this search), "and I will pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some of the debts. You will let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this--I have always shared with you."
"I am innocent," said Becky. And he left her without another word.

"I'll send it back to him today," Rawdon said (for day had dawned again), "and I will pay Briggs, and some of the debts. You will let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this - I have always shared with you."
"I am innocent," said Becky. And he left her without another word.


What were her thoughts when he left her? She remained for hours after he was gone, the sunshine pouring into the room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the bed's edge. The drawers were all opened and their contents scattered about--dresses and feathers, scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying in a wreck. Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown was torn where Rawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of it. She heard him go downstairs a few minutes after he left her, and the door slamming and closing on him. She knew he would never come back. He was gone forever. Would he kill himself?--she thought--not until after he had met Lord Steyne. She thought of her long past life, and all the dismal incidents of it. Ah, how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely and profitless!

What were her thoughts when he left her? She remained for hours after he was gone, sitting alone on the bed's edge, the sunshine pouring into the room. The drawers were open and their contents scattered about - dresses and feathers, scarfs and trinkets lying in a wreck. Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown was torn. She heard him go downstairs, and the door slamming. She knew he would never come back. He was gone forever.
Would he kill himself? she thought. No, not until after he had met and fought Lord Steyne. She thought of her long past life. Ah, how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely and profitless!


Should she take laudanum, and end it, to have done with all hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French maid found her in this position--sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman was her accomplice and in Steyne's pay. "Mon Dieu, madame, what has happened?" she asked.
What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She said not, but who could tell what was truth which came from those lips, or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure?

Should she take laudanum, and end it, have done with all hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs?
The French maid found her sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman was in Steyne's pay.
"Mon Dieu, madame, what has happened?" she asked.
What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She said not, but who could tell if truth came from those lips, or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure?


All her lies and her schemes, and her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and genius had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the curtains and, with some entreaty and show of kindness, persuaded her mistress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below and gathered up the trinkets which had been lying on the floor since Rebecca dropped them there at her husband's orders, and Lord Steyne went away.

All her lies and selfishness and wiles, all her wit and genius had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the curtains and persuaded her mistress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below and gathered up the trinkets that were still lying on the floor.


The astonished reader must be called upon to transport himself ten thousand miles to the military station of Bundlegunge, in the Madras division of our Indian empire, where our gallant old friends of the --th regiment are quartered under the command of the brave Colonel, Sir Michael O'Dowd. Time has dealt kindly with that stout officer, as it does ordinarily with men who have good stomachs and good tempers and are not perplexed over much by fatigue of the brain. The Colonel plays a good knife and fork at tiffin and resumes those weapons with great success at dinner. He smokes his hookah after both meals and puffs as quietly while his wife scolds him as he did under the fire of the French at Waterloo. Age and heat have not diminished the activity or the eloquence of the descendant of the Malonys and the Molloys. Her Ladyship, our old acquaintance, is as much at home at Madras as at Brussels in the cantonment as under the tents. On the march you saw her at the head of the regiment seated on a royal elephant, a noble sight. Mounted on that beast, she has been into action with tigers in the jungle, she has been received by native princes, who have welcomed her and Glorvina into the recesses of their zenanas and offered her shawls and jewels which it went to her heart to refuse. The sentries of all arms salute her wherever she makes her appearance, and she touches her hat gravely to their salutation. Lady O'Dowd is one of the greatest ladies in the Presidency of Madras--her quarrel with Lady Smith, wife of Sir Minos Smith the puisne judge, is still remembered by some at Madras, when the Colonel's lady snapped her fingers in the Judge's lady's face and said SHE'D never walk behind ever a beggarly civilian.

The astonished reader must now transport himself ten thousand miles to the military station of Bundlegunge, in the Madras division of our Indian empire, where our gallant friends of the -th regiment are quartered under the command of the brave Colonel, Sir Michael O'Dowd.
Time has dealt kindly with that stout officer. He has a good stomach and a good temper: he smokes his hookah after dinner and puffs quietly while his wife scolds him. Age and heat have not diminished her activity or eloquence. Lady O'Dowd is as much at home at Madras as at Brussels. Mounted on an elephant, she has been received by native princes, who have welcomed her and Glorvina. The sentries salute her wherever she appears. She is one of the greatest ladies in Madras.


Even now, though it is five-and-twenty years ago, people remember Lady O'Dowd performing a jig at Government House, where she danced down two Aides-de-Camp, a Major of Madras cavalry, and two gentlemen of the Civil Service; and, persuaded by Major Dobbin, C.B., second in command of the --th, to retire to the supper-room, lassata nondum satiata recessit.
Peggy O'Dowd is indeed the same as ever, kind in act and thought; impetuous in temper; eager to command; a tyrant over her Michael; a dragon amongst all the ladies of the regiment; a mother to all the young men, whom she tends in their sickness, defends in all their scrapes, and with whom Lady Peggy is immensely popular. But the Subalterns' and Captains' ladies (the Major is unmarried) cabal against her a good deal. They say that Glorvina gives herself airs and that Peggy herself is intolerably domineering. She interfered with a little congregation which Mrs. Kirk had got up and laughed the young men away from her sermons, stating that a soldier's wife had no business to be a parson--that Mrs. Kirk would be much better mending her husband's clothes; and, if the regiment wanted sermons, that she had the finest in the world, those of her uncle, the Dean. She abruptly put a termination to a flirtation which Lieutenant Stubble of the regiment had commenced with the Surgeon's wife, threatening to come down upon Stubble for the money which he had borrowed from her (for the young fellow was still of an extravagant turn) unless he broke off at once and went to the Cape on sick leave. On the other hand, she housed and sheltered Mrs. Posky, who fled from her bungalow one night, pursued by her infuriate husband, wielding his second brandy bottle, and actually carried Posky through the delirium tremens and broke him of the habit of drinking, which had grown upon that officer, as all evil habits will grow upon men. In a word, in adversity she was the best of comforters, in good fortune the most troublesome of friends, having a perfectly good opinion of herself always and an indomitable resolution to have her own way.

Peggy O'Dowd is indeed the same as ever, kind, impetuous, eager to command; a tyrant over her Michael; a dragon amongst all the ladies of the regiment; and a mother to all the young men, with whom she is immensely popular. But the Subalterns' and Captains' ladies say that Glorvina gives herself airs and that Peggy herself is domineering. She put an end to a flirtation between Lieutenant Stubble and the Surgeon's wife, so that Stubble broke it off at once and went to the Cape on sick leave. On the other hand, she sheltered Mrs. Posky, who fled from her bungalow one night, pursued by her infuriated husband wielding his second brandy bottle; and she actually helped Posky through the delirium tremens and broke him of the habit of drinking. In adversity she was the best of comforters; in good fortune the most troublesome of friends, being resolved to have her own way.


Among other points, she had made up her mind that Glorvina should marry our old friend Dobbin. Mrs. O'Dowd knew the Major's expectations and appreciated his good qualities and the high character which he enjoyed in his profession. Glorvina, a very handsome, fresh-coloured, black-haired, blue-eyed young lady, who could ride a horse, or play a sonata with any girl out of the County Cork, seemed to be the very person destined to insure Dobbin's happiness--much more than that poor good little weak-spur'ted Amelia, about whom he used to take on so.--"Look at Glorvina enter a room," Mrs. O'Dowd would say, "and compare her with that poor Mrs. Osborne, who couldn't say boo to a goose. She'd be worthy of you, Major--you're a quiet man yourself, and want some one to talk for ye. And though she does not come of such good blood as the Malonys or Molloys, let me tell ye, she's of an ancient family that any nobleman might be proud to marry into."

She had made up her mind that Glorvina should marry Dobbin. Glorvina, a very handsome, black-haired, blue-eyed young lady, who could ride a horse or play a sonata, seemed the very person to ensure Dobbin's happiness - much more than that good little weak-spirited Amelia, about whom he used to take on so.
"Compare Glorvina to poor Mrs. Osborne," Mrs. O'Dowd would say, "who couldn't say boo to a goose. She'd be worthy of you, Major - you want someone to talk for ye."