"You will now, if you please, my dear, sit down at the writing-table and pen me a pretty little letter to Miss Crawley, in which you'll say that you are a good boy, and that sort of thing." So Rawdon sate down, and wrote off, "Brighton, Thursday," and "My dear Aunt," with great rapidity: but there the gallant officer's imagination failed him. He mumbled the end of his pen, and looked up in his wife's face. She could not help laughing at his rueful countenance, and marching up and down the room with her hands behind her, the little woman began to dictate a letter, which he took down.

"Now, sit down at the writing-table and pen a pretty little letter to Miss Crawley, in which you say that you are a good boy, and that sort of thing."
So Rawdon sat down, and wrote "My dear Aunt;" and then chewed the end of his pen, and looked at his wife. She could not help laughing at his rueful face, and began to dictate a letter.


"Before quitting the country and commencing a campaign, which very possibly may be fatal."

"Before quitting the country and commencing a campaign which very possibly may be fatal"

Chapter 25: In Which All the Principal Personages Think Fit to Leave Brighton


"What?" said Rawdon, rather surprised, but took the humour of the phrase, and presently wrote it down with a grin.


"Which very possibly may be fatal, I have come hither--"

"Which very possibly may be fatal, I have come hither -"


"Why not say come here, Becky? Come here's grammar," the dragoon interposed.


"I have come hither," Rebecca insisted, with a stamp of her foot, "to say farewell to my dearest and earliest friend. I beseech you before I go, not perhaps to return, once more to let me press the hand from which I have received nothing but kindnesses all my life."

"I have come hither," Rebecca insisted, "to say farewell to my dearest and earliest friend. I beseech you before I go, once more to let me press the hand from which I have received nothing but kindnesses all my life."


"Kindnesses all my life," echoed Rawdon, scratching down the words, and quite amazed at his own facility of composition.

"Kindnesses all my life," echoed Rawdon, scratching down the words.


"I ask nothing from you but that we should part not in anger. I have the pride of my family on some points, though not on all. I married a painter's daughter, and am not ashamed of the union."

"I ask only that we should not part in anger. I have the pride of my family on some points, though not all. I married a painter's daughter, and am not ashamed of the union."


"No, run me through the body if I am!" Rawdon ejaculated.

"No, run me through if I am!" Rawdon cried.


"You old booby," Rebecca said, pinching his ear and looking over to see that he made no mistakes in spelling--"beseech is not spelt with an a, and earliest is." So he altered these words, bowing to the superior knowledge of his little Missis.

"You old booby," Rebecca said, pinching his ear and looking over his work. "Beseech is not spelt with an a, and earliest is." So he altered these words, bowing to her superior knowledge.


"I thought that you were aware of the progress of my attachment," Rebecca continued: "I knew that Mrs. Bute Crawley confirmed and encouraged it. But I make no reproaches. I married a poor woman, and am content to abide by what I have done. Leave your property, dear Aunt, as you will. I shall never complain of the way in which you dispose of it. I would have you believe that I love you for yourself, and not for money's sake. I want to be reconciled to you ere I leave England. Let me, let me see you before I go. A few weeks or months hence it may be too late, and I cannot bear the notion of quitting the country without a kind word of farewell from you."

"I thought that you were aware of my attachment," Rebecca continued. "I knew that Mrs. Bute Crawley encouraged it. But I make no reproaches. I am content to abide by what I have done. Leave your property, dear Aunt, as you wish, and I shall never complain. I love you for yourself, and not for money's sake. I want to be reconciled to you ere I leave England. Let me, let me see you before I go. A few weeks hence it may be too late, and I cannot bear to quit the country without a kind word of farewell from you.


"She won't recognise my style in that," said Becky. "I made the sentences short and brisk on purpose." And this authentic missive was despatched under cover to Miss Briggs.

"She won't recognise my style in that," said Becky. And this authentic missive was sent to Miss Briggs.


Old Miss Crawley laughed when Briggs, with great mystery, handed her over this candid and simple statement. "We may read it now Mrs. Bute is away," she said. "Read it to me, Briggs."

Old Miss Crawley laughed when Briggs handed it over. "We may read it now Mrs. Bute is away," she said. "Read it to me, Briggs."


When Briggs had read the epistle out, her patroness laughed more. "Don't you see, you goose," she said to Briggs, who professed to be much touched by the honest affection which pervaded the composition, "don't you see that Rawdon never wrote a word of it. He never wrote to me without asking for money in his life, and all his letters are full of bad spelling, and dashes, and bad grammar. It is that little serpent of a governess who rules him." They are all alike, Miss Crawley thought in her heart. They all want me dead, and are hankering for my money.

When Briggs had read the letter out, much affected, her patroness laughed more.
"Don't you see, you goose," she said, "that Rawdon never wrote a word of it. All his letters are full of bad spelling and bad grammar. It is that little serpent of a governess who rules him." Miss Crawley thought: they all want me dead, and are hankering for my money.


"I don't mind seeing Rawdon," she added, after a pause, and in a tone of perfect indifference. "I had just as soon shake hands with him as not. Provided there is no scene, why shouldn't we meet? I don't mind. But human patience has its limits; and mind, my dear, I respectfully decline to receive Mrs. Rawdon--I can't support that quite"--and Miss Briggs was fain to be content with this half-message of conciliation; and thought that the best method of bringing the old lady and her nephew together, was to warn Rawdon to be in waiting on the Cliff, when Miss Crawley went out for her air in her chair. There they met. I don't know whether Miss Crawley had any private feeling of regard or emotion upon seeing her old favourite; but she held out a couple of fingers to him with as smiling and good-humoured an air, as if they had met only the day before. And as for Rawdon, he turned as red as scarlet, and wrung off Briggs's hand, so great was his rapture and his confusion at the meeting. Perhaps it was interest that moved him: or perhaps affection: perhaps he was touched by the change which the illness of the last weeks had wrought in his aunt.

"I don't mind seeing Rawdon," she added, after a pause. "I had just as soon shake hands with him as not. But I decline to receive Mrs. Rawdon."
Miss Briggs had to be content with this; and thought that the best method of bringing the old lady and her nephew together, was for Rawdon to be waiting on the Cliff when Miss Crawley went out in her sedan-chair.
There they met. Miss Crawley held out a couple of fingers to him, smiling. Rawdon turned scarlet, and wrung Briggs's hand, so great was his rapture. Perhaps he was touched by the change which the illness of the last weeks had wrought in his aunt.


"The old girl has always acted like a trump to me," he said to his wife, as he narrated the interview, "and I felt, you know, rather queer, and that sort of thing. I walked by the side of the what-dy'e-call-'em, you know, and to her own door, where Bowls came to help her in. And I wanted to go in very much, only--"

"The old girl has always been good to me," he said to his wife afterwards, "and I felt, you know, rather queer, and that sort of thing. I walked beside her chair to her door, and I wanted to go in, only-"


"YOU DIDN'T GO IN, Rawdon!" screamed his wife.

"You didn't go in, Rawdon!" screamed his wife.


"No, my dear; I'm hanged if I wasn't afraid when it came to the point."


"You fool! you ought to have gone in, and never come out again," Rebecca said.


"Don't call me names," said the big Guardsman, sulkily. "Perhaps I WAS a fool, Becky, but you shouldn't say so"; and he gave his wife a look, such as his countenance could wear when angered, and such as was not pleasant to face.

"Don't call me names," said the big Guardsman sulkily. "Perhaps I was a fool, Becky, but you shouldn't say so."


"Well, dearest, to-morrow you must be on the look-out, and go and see her, mind, whether she asks you or no," Rebecca said, trying to soothe her angry yoke-mate. On which he replied, that he would do exactly as he liked, and would just thank her to keep a civil tongue in her head--and the wounded husband went away, and passed the forenoon at the billiard-room, sulky, silent, and suspicious.

"Well, dearest, tomorrow you must go and see her, whether she asks you or no," Rebecca said, trying to soothe him. He replied that he would do as he liked, and would thank her to keep a civil tongue in her head. Then the wounded husband went away sulkily, and passed the morning at the billiard-room.


But before the night was over he was compelled to give in, and own, as usual, to his wife's superior prudence and foresight, by the most melancholy confirmation of the presentiments which she had regarding the consequences of the mistake which he had made. Miss Crawley must have had some emotion upon seeing him and shaking hands with him after so long a rupture. She mused upon the meeting a considerable time. "Rawdon is getting very fat and old, Briggs," she said to her companion. "His nose has become red, and he is exceedingly coarse in appearance. His marriage to that woman has hopelessly vulgarised him. Mrs. Bute always said they drank together; and I have no doubt they do. Yes: he smelt of gin abominably. I remarked it. Didn't you?"

But soon he was compelled to give in and admit, as usual, to his wife's superior foresight, when a letter arrived.
Miss Crawley had mused upon the meeting a considerable time.
"Rawdon is getting very fat and old, Briggs," she said to her companion. "His nose has become red, and he is exceedingly coarse in appearance. His marriage to that woman has hopelessly vulgarised him. Mrs. Bute always said they drank together. He smelt of gin abominably. I noticed it. Didn't you?"


In vain Briggs interposed that Mrs. Bute spoke ill of everybody: and, as far as a person in her humble position could judge, was an--

In vain Briggs said that Mrs. Bute spoke ill of everybody: and was a-


"An artful designing woman? Yes, so she is, and she does speak ill of every one--but I am certain that woman has made Rawdon drink. All those low people do--"

"An artful designing woman? Yes, so she is - but I am certain that his wife has made Rawdon drink."


"He was very much affected at seeing you, ma'am," the companion said; "and I am sure, when you remember that he is going to the field of danger--"

"He was very much affected at seeing you, ma'am," the companion said; "and when you remember that he is going to the field of danger-"


"How much money has he promised you, Briggs?" the old spinster cried out, working herself into a nervous rage--"there now, of course you begin to cry. I hate scenes. Why am I always to be worried? Go and cry up in your own room, and send Firkin to me--no, stop, sit down and blow your nose, and leave off crying, and write a letter to Captain Crawley." Poor Briggs went and placed herself obediently at the writing-book. Its leaves were blotted all over with relics of the firm, strong, rapid handwriting of the spinster's late amanuensis, Mrs. Bute Crawley.

"How much money has he promised you, Briggs?" the old spinster cried out in a nervous rage. "There, now of course you begin to cry. I hate scenes. Stop, sit down and blow your nose, and write a letter to Captain Crawley."
Poor Briggs went obediently to the writing-desk.


"Begin 'My dear sir,' or 'Dear sir,' that will be better, and say you are desired by Miss Crawley--no, by Miss Crawley's medical man, by Mr. Creamer, to state that my health is such that all strong emotions would be dangerous in my present delicate condition--and that I must decline any family discussions or interviews whatever. And thank him for coming to Brighton, and so forth, and beg him not to stay any longer on my account. And, Miss Briggs, you may add that I wish him a bon voyage, and that if he will take the trouble to call upon my lawyer's in Gray's Inn Square, he will find there a communication for him. Yes, that will do; and that will make him leave Brighton." The benevolent Briggs penned this sentence with the utmost satisfaction.

"Begin 'Dear sir,', and say you are desired by Miss Crawley - no, by Miss Crawley's medical man, by Mr. Creamer, to state that my health is so delicate that all strong emotions would be dangerous - and that I must decline any family interviews whatever. And thank him for coming to Brighton, and so forth, and beg him not to stay any longer on my account. You may add that I wish him a bon voyage, and that if he calls upon my lawyer's in Gray's Inn Square, he will find there something for him. That will do; that will make him leave Brighton." Briggs penned this with satisfaction.


"To seize upon me the very day after Mrs. Bute was gone," the old lady prattled on; "it was too indecent. Briggs, my dear, write to Mrs. Crawley, and say SHE needn't come back. No--she needn't--and she shan't--and I won't be a slave in my own house--and I won't be starved and choked with poison. They all want to kill me--all--all"--and with this the lonely old woman burst into a scream of hysterical tears.

"To seize upon me the very day after Mrs. Bute was gone," the old lady went on; "it was indecent. Briggs, my dear, write to Mrs. Bute Crawley, and say she needn't come back. No - she shan't - I won't be a slave in my own house - and I won't be starved and choked with poison. They all want to kill me - all!" - and the lonely old woman burst into hysterical tears.


The last scene of her dismal Vanity Fair comedy was fast approaching; the tawdry lamps were going out one by one; and the dark curtain was almost ready to descend.


That final paragraph, which referred Rawdon to Miss Crawley's solicitor in London, and which Briggs had written so good-naturedly, consoled the dragoon and his wife somewhat, after their first blank disappointment, on reading the spinster's refusal of a reconciliation. And it effected the purpose for which the old lady had caused it to be written, by making Rawdon very eager to get to London.

This letter referring Rawdon to Miss Crawley's lawyer consoled the dragoon and his wife somewhat. And it had the desired effect, by making Rawdon very eager to get to London.


Out of Jos's losings and George Osborne's bank-notes, he paid his bill at the inn, the landlord whereof does not probably know to this day how doubtfully his account once stood. For, as a general sends his baggage to the rear before an action, Rebecca had wisely packed up all their chief valuables and sent them off under care of George's servant, who went in charge of the trunks on the coach back to London. Rawdon and his wife returned by the same conveyance next day.

Out of Jos's and George Osborne's losings, he paid his bill at the inn. The landlord does not know to this day how doubtfully his account once stood.


"I should have liked to see the old girl before we went," Rawdon said. "She looks so cut up and altered that I'm sure she can't last long. I wonder what sort of a cheque I shall have at Waxy's. Two hundred--it can't be less than two hundred--hey, Becky?"

"I should have liked to see the old girl before we went," Rawdon said. "She looks so altered that I'm sure she can't last long. I wonder what sort of a cheque I shall have. It can't be less than two hundred - hey, Becky?"


In consequence of the repeated visits of the aides-de-camp of the Sheriff of Middlesex, Rawdon and his wife did not go back to their lodgings at Brompton, but put up at an inn. Early the next morning, Rebecca had an opportunity of seeing them as she skirted that suburb on her road to old Mrs. Sedley's house at Fulham, whither she went to look for her dear Amelia and her Brighton friends. They were all off to Chatham, thence to Harwich, to take shipping for Belgium with the regiment--kind old Mrs. Sedley very much depressed and tearful, solitary. Returning from this visit, Rebecca found her husband, who had been off to Gray's Inn, and learnt his fate. He came back furious.

Because of the repeated visits of the Sheriff's men, Rawdon and his wife did not go back to their former lodgings in London, but stayed at an inn. Early the next morning, Rebecca went to old Mrs. Sedley's house at Fulham to look for her dear Amelia and her Brighton friends, who were going off to Chatham to travel to Belgium with the regiment - but kind old Mrs. Sedley was alone and tearful.
Returning from this visit, Rebecca found her husband, who had been off to Gray's Inn, and had come back furious.


"By Jove, Becky," says he, "she's only given me twenty pound!"

"By Jove, Becky," said he, "she's only given me twenty pound!"


Though it told against themselves, the joke was too good, and Becky burst out laughing at Rawdon's discomfiture.


Enemies the most obstinate and courageous can't hold out against starvation; so the elder Osborne felt himself pretty easy about his adversary in the encounter we have just described; and as soon as George's supplies fell short, confidently expected his unconditional submission. It was unlucky, to be sure, that the lad should have secured a stock of provisions on the very day when the first encounter took place; but this relief was only temporary, old Osborne thought, and would but delay George's surrender. No communication passed between father and son for some days. The former was sulky at this silence, but not disquieted; for, as he said, he knew where he could put the screw upon George, and only waited the result of that operation. He told the sisters the upshot of the dispute between them, but ordered them to take no notice of the matter, and welcome George on his return as if nothing had happened. His cover was laid as usual every day, and perhaps the old gentleman rather anxiously expected him; but he never came. Some one inquired at the Slaughters' regarding him, where it was said that he and his friend Captain Dobbin had left town.

The most obstinate enemies can't hold out against starvation; so the elder Osborne felt pretty confident that as soon as George's supplies fell short, he would submit. It was unlucky, to be sure, that he had collected some money on the very day of the encounter; but old Osborne thought this would merely delay George's surrender.
No communication passed between father and son for some days. The former was sulky at this silence, but not disquieted. He told the sisters the upshot of the dispute, but ordered them to take no notice of the matter, and to welcome George on his return as if nothing had happened. The old gentleman rather anxiously expected him every day; but he never came. Someone inquired about him at the Slaughters', where it was said that he and his friend Captain Dobbin had left town.

Chapter 22: A Marriage and Part of a Honeymoon


One gusty, raw day at the end of April--the rain whipping the pavement of that ancient street where the old Slaughters' Coffee-house was once situated--George Osborne came into the coffee-room, looking very haggard and pale; although dressed rather smartly in a blue coat and brass buttons, and a neat buff waistcoat of the fashion of those days. Here was his friend Captain Dobbin, in blue and brass too, having abandoned the military frock and French-grey trousers, which were the usual coverings of his lanky person.

One gusty, raw day at the end of April - the rain whipping the pavement of the ancient street outside the Slaughters' Coffee-house - George Osborne entered, looking haggard and pale; although dressed rather smartly in a blue coat and brass buttons, and a neat buff waistcoat. His friend Captain Dobbin was there, in blue and brass too.


Dobbin had been in the coffee-room for an hour or more. He had tried all the papers, but could not read them. He had looked at the clock many scores of times; and at the street, where the rain was pattering down, and the people as they clinked by in pattens, left long reflections on the shining stone: he tattooed at the table: he bit his nails most completely, and nearly to the quick (he was accustomed to ornament his great big hands in this way): he balanced the tea-spoon dexterously on the milk jug: upset it, &c., &c.; and in fact showed those signs of disquietude, and practised those desperate attempts at amusement, which men are accustomed to employ when very anxious, and expectant, and perturbed in mind.

Dobbin had been in the coffee-room for an hour, trying to read the papers. He had looked at the clock scores of times; he drummed at the table: he bit his nails; and showed all the signs of anxiety.


Some of his comrades, gentlemen who used the room, joked him about the splendour of his costume and his agitation of manner. One asked him if he was going to be married? Dobbin laughed, and said he would send his acquaintance (Major Wagstaff of the Engineers) a piece of cake when that event took place. At length Captain Osborne made his appearance, very smartly dressed, but very pale and agitated as we have said. He wiped his pale face with a large yellow bandanna pocket-handkerchief that was prodigiously scented. He shook hands with Dobbin, looked at the clock, and told John, the waiter, to bring him some curacao. Of this cordial he swallowed off a couple of glasses with nervous eagerness. His friend asked with some interest about his health.

Some of his comrades there joked about the splendour of his costume and his agitation. One asked him if he was going to be married? Dobbin laughed, and said he would send his acquaintance a piece of cake when that happened.
At length Captain Osborne appeared. He wiped his pale face with a pocket-handkerchief; shook hands with Dobbin, looked at the clock, and told John, the waiter, to bring him some curacao. He swallowed a couple of glasses with nervous eagerness.


"Couldn't get a wink of sleep till daylight, Dob," said he. "Infernal headache and fever. Got up at nine, and went down to the Hummums for a bath. I say, Dob, I feel just as I did on the morning I went out with Rocket at Quebec."

"Couldn't get a wink of sleep till daylight, Dob," said he. "Infernal headache and fever. I say, Dob, I feel just as I did on the morning I went out with Rocket at Quebec."


"So do I," William responded. "I was a deuced deal more nervous than you were that morning. You made a famous breakfast, I remember. Eat something now."


"You're a good old fellow, Will. I'll drink your health, old boy, and farewell to--"

"You're a good fellow, Will. I'll drink your health, old boy, and farewell to-"


"No, no; two glasses are enough," Dobbin interrupted him. "Here, take away the liqueurs, John. Have some cayenne-pepper with your fowl. Make haste though, for it is time we were there."

"No, no; two glasses are enough," Dobbin interrupted. "Have some of the fowl. Make haste though, for it is time we were there."


It was about half an hour from twelve when this brief meeting and colloquy took place between the two captains. A coach, into which Captain Osborne's servant put his master's desk and dressing-case, had been in waiting for some time; and into this the two gentlemen hurried under an umbrella, and the valet mounted on the box, cursing the rain and the dampness of the coachman who was steaming beside him. "We shall find a better trap than this at the church-door," says he; "that's a comfort." And the carriage drove on, taking the road down Piccadilly, where Apsley House and St. George's Hospital wore red jackets still; where there were oil-lamps; where Achilles was not yet born; nor the Pimlico arch raised; nor the hideous equestrian monster which pervades it and the neighbourhood; and so they drove down by Brompton to a certain chapel near the Fulham Road there.

A coach was waiting for them; and into this the two gentlemen hurried under an umbrella, and the valet mounted the box, cursing the rain. "At least we'll have a better coach outside the church," he said.
The carriage drove down Piccadilly, where Apsley House and St. George's Hospital wore red jackets still; where there were oil-lamps, and the Pimlico arch was not yet built; and so down by Brompton to a certain chapel near the Fulham Road.


A chariot was in waiting with four horses; likewise a coach of the kind called glass coaches. Only a very few idlers were collected on account of the dismal rain.

A chariot was in waiting with four horses; also a large-windowed coach of the kind called glass coaches.


"Hang it!" said George, "I said only a pair."


"My master would have four," said Mr. Joseph Sedley's servant, who was in waiting; and he and Mr. Osborne's man agreed as they followed George and William into the church, that it was a "reg'lar shabby turn hout; and with scarce so much as a breakfast or a wedding faviour."

"My master would have four," said Mr. Joseph Sedley's servant, who was there waiting. He and Mr. Osborne's servant agreed, as they followed George and William into the church, that it was a "shabby turnout, with scarce so much as a wedding breakfast."


"Here you are," said our old friend, Jos Sedley, coming forward. "You're five minutes late, George, my boy. What a day, eh? Demmy, it's like the commencement of the rainy season in Bengal. But you'll find my carriage is watertight. Come along, my mother and Emmy are in the vestry."

"Here you are," said our old friend, Jos Sedley, coming forward. "You're five minutes late, George, my boy. What a day, eh? It's like the rainy season in Bengal. But you'll find my carriage is watertight. Come along; my mother and Emmy are in the vestry."


Jos Sedley was splendid. He was fatter than ever. His shirt collars were higher; his face was redder; his shirt-frill flaunted gorgeously out of his variegated waistcoat. Varnished boots were not invented as yet; but the Hessians on his beautiful legs shone so, that they must have been the identical pair in which the gentleman in the old picture used to shave himself; and on his light green coat there bloomed a fine wedding favour, like a great white spreading magnolia.

Jos Sedley was splendid. He was fatter than ever. His shirt collars were higher; his face was redder; his shirt-frill flaunted gorgeously out of his variegated waistcoat. The Hessians on his beautiful legs shone like mirrors; and on his light green coat there bloomed a fine wedding favour, like a great white spreading magnolia.


In a word, George had thrown the great cast. He was going to be married. Hence his pallor and nervousness--his sleepless night and agitation in the morning. I have heard people who have gone through the same thing own to the same emotion. After three or four ceremonies, you get accustomed to it, no doubt; but the first dip, everybody allows, is awful.

In a word, George was going to be married. Hence his nervousness and his sleepless night. I have heard several people confess to the same emotion. After three or four ceremonies, you get used to it, no doubt; but the first dip, everybody allows, is awful.


The bride was dressed in a brown silk pelisse (as Captain Dobbin has since informed me), and wore a straw bonnet with a pink ribbon; over the bonnet she had a veil of white Chantilly lace, a gift from Mr. Joseph Sedley, her brother. Captain Dobbin himself had asked leave to present her with a gold chain and watch, which she sported on this occasion; and her mother gave her her diamond brooch--almost the only trinket which was left to the old lady. As the service went on, Mrs. Sedley sat and whimpered a great deal in a pew, consoled by the Irish maid-servant and Mrs. Clapp from the lodgings. Old Sedley would not be present. Jos acted for his father, giving away the bride, whilst Captain Dobbin stepped up as groomsman to his friend George.

The bride was dressed in a brown silk pelisse, and wore a straw bonnet with a pink ribbon; over the bonnet she had a veil of white Chantilly lace, a gift from her brother. Captain Dobbin had asked permission to present her with a gold chain and watch, which she wore; and her mother gave her a diamond brooch - almost the only trinket left to the old lady. As the service went on, Mrs. Sedley whimpered a great deal, consoled by the Irish maid-servant and Mrs. Clapp from the lodgings. Old Sedley was not present. Jos gave away the bride, whilst Captain Dobbin was groomsman to his friend George.


There was nobody in the church besides the officiating persons and the small marriage party and their attendants. The two valets sat aloof superciliously. The rain came rattling down on the windows. In the intervals of the service you heard it, and the sobbing of old Mrs. Sedley in the pew. The parson's tones echoed sadly through the empty walls. Osborne's "I will" was sounded in very deep bass. Emmy's response came fluttering up to her lips from her heart, but was scarcely heard by anybody except Captain Dobbin.

The rain came rattling down on the windows, while the parson's tones echoed sadly through the empty walls. Osborne's "I will" was sounded in very deep bass. Emmy's fluttering response was scarcely heard by anybody except Captain Dobbin.


When the service was completed, Jos Sedley came forward and kissed his sister, the bride, for the first time for many months--George's look of gloom had gone, and he seemed quite proud and radiant. "It's your turn, William," says he, putting his hand fondly upon Dobbin's shoulder; and Dobbin went up and touched Amelia on the cheek.

When the service was completed, Jos Sedley kissed his sister, the bride, for the first time in many months. George's look of gloom had gone, and he seemed quite proud and radiant.
"It's your turn, William," said he. Dobbin went up and touched Amelia on the cheek.


Then they went into the vestry and signed the register. "God bless you, Old Dobbin," George said, grasping him by the hand, with something very like moisture glistening in his eyes. William replied only by nodding his head. His heart was too full to say much.

Then they went into the vestry and signed the register.
"God bless you, Old Dobbin," George said, grasping him by the hand, with tears in his eyes. William replied only by nodding. His heart was too full to say much.


"Write directly, and come down as soon as you can, you know," Osborne said. After Mrs. Sedley had taken an hysterical adieu of her daughter, the pair went off to the carriage. "Get out of the way, you little devils," George cried to a small crowd of damp urchins, that were hanging about the chapel-door. The rain drove into the bride and bridegroom's faces as they passed to the chariot. The postilions' favours draggled on their dripping jackets. The few children made a dismal cheer, as the carriage, splashing mud, drove away.

After Mrs. Sedley had taken an hysterical adieu of her daughter, the pair went off to the carriage.
"Get out of the way, you little devils," George cried to a small crowd of damp urchins. The rain drove into the bride and bridegroom's faces as they walked to the chariot. The children made a dismal cheer as the carriage, splashing mud, drove away.


William Dobbin stood in the church-porch, looking at it, a queer figure. The small crew of spectators jeered him. He was not thinking about them or their laughter.

William Dobbin stood in the church-porch, looking at it. The small crew of spectators jeered him. He was not thinking about them or their laughter.


"Come home and have some tiffin, Dobbin," a voice cried behind him; as a pudgy hand was laid on his shoulder, and the honest fellow's reverie was interrupted. But the Captain had no heart to go a-feasting with Jos Sedley. He put the weeping old lady and her attendants into the carriage along with Jos, and left them without any farther words passing. This carriage, too, drove away, and the urchins gave another sarcastical cheer.

"Come home and have some tiffin, Dobbin," a voice cried behind him, as a pudgy hand was laid on his shoulder. But the Captain had no heart to go a-feasting with Jos Sedley. He put the weeping old lady and her attendants into the carriage along with Jos, and they too, drove away. The urchins gave another sarcastical cheer.


"Here, you little beggars," Dobbin said, giving some sixpences amongst them, and then went off by himself through the rain. It was all over. They were married, and happy, he prayed God. Never since he was a boy had he felt so miserable and so lonely. He longed with a heart-sick yearning for the first few days to be over, that he might see her again.

"Here, you little beggars," Dobbin said, giving them some sixpences, and then he went off by himself through the rain. It was all over. They were married, and happy, he prayed God. Never since he was a boy had he felt so miserable and so lonely. He longed with a heart-sick yearning for the first few days to be over, so that he might see her again.
*


Some ten days after the above ceremony, three young men of our acquaintance were enjoying that beautiful prospect of bow windows on the one side and blue sea on the other, which Brighton affords to the traveller. Sometimes it is towards the ocean--smiling with countless dimples, speckled with white sails, with a hundred bathing-machines kissing the skirt of his blue garment--that the Londoner looks enraptured: sometimes, on the contrary, a lover of human nature rather than of prospects of any kind, it is towards the bow windows that he turns, and that swarm of human life which they exhibit. From one issue the notes of a piano, which a young lady in ringlets practises six hours daily, to the delight of the fellow-lodgers: at another, lovely Polly, the nurse-maid, may be seen dandling Master Omnium in her arms: whilst Jacob, his papa, is beheld eating prawns, and devouring the Times for breakfast, at the window below. Yonder are the Misses Leery, who are looking out for the young officers of the Heavies, who are pretty sure to be pacing the cliff; or again it is a City man, with a nautical turn, and a telescope, the size of a six-pounder, who has his instrument pointed seawards, so as to command every pleasure-boat, herring-boat, or bathing-machine that comes to, or quits, the shore, &c., &c. But have we any leisure for a description of Brighton?--for Brighton, a clean Naples with genteel lazzaroni--for Brighton, that always looks brisk, gay, and gaudy, like a harlequin's jacket--for Brighton, which used to be seven hours distant from London at the time of our story; which is now only a hundred minutes off; and which may approach who knows how much nearer, unless Joinville comes and untimely bombards it?

Some ten days after this ceremony, three young men of our acquaintance were enjoying that beautiful Brighton prospect of bow windows on the one side and blue sea on the other. Sometimes it is towards the smiling ocean, speckled with white sails, that the Londoner looks, enraptured: sometimes it is towards the bow windows and that swarm of human life which they exhibit. From one come the notes of a piano, which a young lady in ringlets practises six hours daily, to the delight of the fellow-lodgers: at another, a nurse-maid is dandling a baby in her arms, whilst his papa is devouring the Times for breakfast at the window below. Yonder are the Misses Leery, looking out for young men pacing the cliff; or there is a City man with a telescope pointed seawards, so as to see every boat or bathing-machine along the shore.


"What a monstrous fine girl that is in the lodgings over the milliner's," one of these three promenaders remarked to the other; "Gad, Crawley, did you see what a wink she gave me as I passed?"

"What a monstrous fine girl that is over the milliner's," one of these three promenaders remarked. "Gad, Crawley, did you see what a wink she gave me?"


"Don't break her heart, Jos, you rascal," said another. "Don't trifle with her affections, you Don Juan!"


"Get away," said Jos Sedley, quite pleased, and leering up at the maid-servant in question with a most killing ogle. Jos was even more splendid at Brighton than he had been at his sister's marriage. He had brilliant under-waistcoats, any one of which would have set up a moderate buck. He sported a military frock-coat, ornamented with frogs, knobs, black buttons, and meandering embroidery. He had affected a military appearance and habits of late; and he walked with his two friends, who were of that profession, clinking his boot-spurs, swaggering prodigiously, and shooting death-glances at all the servant girls who were worthy to be slain.

"Get away," said Jos Sedley, quite pleased, and leering up at the maid-servant. He was even more splendid at Brighton than he had been at his sister's marriage. Any one of his brilliant under-waistcoats would have set up a moderate dandy. He wore a military frock-coat, ornamented with frogs, knobs, black buttons, and meandering embroidery, for he had affected a military appearance of late; and he walked with his two military friends, clinking his boot-spurs, swaggering, and shooting death-glances at all the servant girls.


"What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return?" the buck asked. The ladies were out to Rottingdean in his carriage on a drive.

"What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return?" he asked. The ladies were out at Rottingdean in his carriage on a drive.


"Let's have a game at billiards," one of his friends said--the tall one, with lacquered mustachios.

"Let's have a game at billiards," one of his friends said - the tall one, with lacquered mustachios.


"No, dammy; no, Captain," Jos replied, rather alarmed. "No billiards to-day, Crawley, my boy; yesterday was enough."

"No, damme," Jos replied, rather alarmed. "No billiards today, Crawley, my boy; yesterday was enough."


"You play very well," said Crawley, laughing. "Don't he, Osborne? How well he made that five stroke, eh?"

"You play very well," said Crawley, laughing. "Don't he, Osborne?"


"Famous," Osborne said. "Jos is a devil of a fellow at billiards, and at everything else, too. I wish there were any tiger-hunting about here! we might go and kill a few before dinner. (There goes a fine girl! what an ankle, eh, Jos?) Tell us that story about the tiger-hunt, and the way you did for him in the jungle--it's a wonderful story that, Crawley." Here George Osborne gave a yawn. "It's rather slow work," said he, "down here; what shall we do?"

"Famous," Osborne said. "Jos is a devil of a fellow at billiards, and everything else, too. I wish there were tiger-hunting about here! we might kill a few before dinner. (There goes a fine girl! what an ankle, eh, Jos?) Tell us that story about the tiger-hunt - it's a wonderful story that, Crawley." Here George Osborne yawned. "It's rather slow here; what shall we do?"


"Shall we go and look at some horses that Snaffler's just brought from Lewes fair?" Crawley said.

"Shall we go and look at Snaffler's horses?" Crawley said.


"Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's," and the rogue Jos, willing to kill two birds with one stone. "Devilish fine gal at Dutton's."

"Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's," said Jos. "Devilish fine gal at Dutton's."


"Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in, it's just about time?" George said. This advice prevailing over the stables and the jelly, they turned towards the coach-office to witness the Lightning's arrival.

"Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in - it's just about time," George said. This advice prevailing, they turned towards the coach-office to witness the Lightning's arrival.


As they passed, they met the carriage--Jos Sedley's open carriage, with its magnificent armorial bearings--that splendid conveyance in which he used to drive, about at Cheltenham, majestic and solitary, with his arms folded, and his hat cocked; or, more happy, with ladies by his side.

As they walked, they met Jos Sedley's magnificent open carriage.


Two were in the carriage now: one a little person, with light hair, and dressed in the height of the fashion; the other in a brown silk pelisse, and a straw bonnet with pink ribbons, with a rosy, round, happy face, that did you good to behold. She checked the carriage as it neared the three gentlemen, after which exercise of authority she looked rather nervous, and then began to blush most absurdly. "We have had a delightful drive, George," she said, "and--and we're so glad to come back; and, Joseph, don't let him be late."

Two ladies were in it: one a little person dressed in the height of fashion; the other in a brown silk pelisse, and a straw bonnet with pink ribbons, with a rosy, happy face, that did you good to behold. She halted the carriage as it neared the three gentlemen, and then began to blush absurdly.
"We have had a delightful drive, George," she said, "and - and we're so glad to come back; Joseph, don't let him be late."


"Don't be leading our husbands into mischief, Mr. Sedley, you wicked, wicked man you," Rebecca said, shaking at Jos a pretty little finger covered with the neatest French kid glove. "No billiards, no smoking, no naughtiness!"

"Don't lead our husbands into mischief, Mr. Sedley, you wicked man you," Rebecca said, shaking a pretty finger at Jos. "No billiards, no smoking, no naughtiness!"


"My dear Mrs. Crawley--Ah now! upon my honour!" was all Jos could ejaculate by way of reply; but he managed to fall into a tolerable attitude, with his head lying on his shoulder, grinning upwards at his victim, with one hand at his back, which he supported on his cane, and the other hand (the one with the diamond ring) fumbling in his shirt-frill and among his under-waistcoats. As the carriage drove off he kissed the diamond hand to the fair ladies within. He wished all Cheltenham, all Chowringhee, all Calcutta, could see him in that position, waving his hand to such a beauty, and in company with such a famous buck as Rawdon Crawley of the Guards.

"My dear Mrs. Crawley - upon my honour!" was all Jos could say, grinning at his victim. As the carriage drove off he kissed his hand to the fair ladies. He wished all Cheltenham, all Calcutta, could see him waving to such a beauty, alongside such a famous buck as Rawdon Crawley of the Guards.


Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton as the place where they would pass the first few days after their marriage; and having engaged apartments at the Ship Inn, enjoyed themselves there in great comfort and quietude, until Jos presently joined them. Nor was he the only companion they found there. As they were coming into the hotel from a sea-side walk one afternoon, on whom should they light but Rebecca and her husband. The recognition was immediate. Rebecca flew into the arms of her dearest friend. Crawley and Osborne shook hands together cordially enough: and Becky, in the course of a very few hours, found means to make the latter forget that little unpleasant passage of words which had happened between them. "Do you remember the last time we met at Miss Crawley's, when I was so rude to you, dear Captain Osborne? I thought you seemed careless about dear Amelia. It was that made me angry: and so pert: and so unkind: and so ungrateful. Do forgive me!" Rebecca said, and she held out her hand with so frank and winning a grace, that Osborne could not but take it. By humbly and frankly acknowledging yourself to be in the wrong, there is no knowing, my son, what good you may do. I knew once a gentleman and very worthy practitioner in Vanity Fair, who used to do little wrongs to his neighbours on purpose, and in order to apologise for them in an open and manly way afterwards--and what ensued? My friend Crocky Doyle was liked everywhere, and deemed to be rather impetuous--but the honestest fellow. Becky's humility passed for sincerity with George Osborne.

Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton to pass the first few days after their marriage; and having engaged apartments at the Ship Inn, enjoyed themselves there quietly, until Jos joined them. Nor was he the only companion they found. As they were coming into the hotel one day, whom should they see but Rebecca and her husband.
Rebecca flew into the arms of her dearest friend. Crawley and Osborne shook hands cordially enough: and Becky very soon found a way to make George forget that unpleasant passage of words which had happened between them.
"Do you remember the last time we met at Miss Crawley's, when I was so rude to you, dear Captain Osborne? I thought you seemed careless about dear Amelia. It was that made me angry: and so pert and ungrateful. Do forgive me!" Rebecca said, and she held out her hand so frankly that Osborne could not but take it.
By humbly acknowledging yourself to be in the wrong, there is no knowing what good you may do. I once knew a gentleman in Vanity Fair, who used to do little wrongs to his neighbours on purpose, in order to apologise for them in an open and manly way afterwards - and he was thought to be the honestest fellow. Becky's humility passed for sincerity with George Osborne.


These two young couples had plenty of tales to relate to each other. The marriages of either were discussed; and their prospects in life canvassed with the greatest frankness and interest on both sides. George's marriage was to be made known to his father by his friend Captain Dobbin; and young Osborne trembled rather for the result of that communication. Miss Crawley, on whom all Rawdon's hopes depended, still held out. Unable to make an entry into her house in Park Lane, her affectionate nephew and niece had followed her to Brighton, where they had emissaries continually planted at her door.

These two young couples had plenty to tell each other. Their marriages were discussed; and their prospects in life canvassed with the greatest interest on both sides. George's marriage was to be made known to his father by Captain Dobbin; and young Osborne trembled rather for the result of that news. Miss Crawley, on whom Rawdon's hopes depended, still held out. Unable to enter her house in Park Lane, her affectionate nephew and niece had followed her to Brighton, where they had messengers planted at her door.


"I wish you could see some of Rawdon's friends who are always about our door," Rebecca said, laughing. "Did you ever see a dun, my dear; or a bailiff and his man? Two of the abominable wretches watched all last week at the greengrocer's opposite, and we could not get away until Sunday. If Aunty does not relent, what shall we do?"

"I wish you could see some of Rawdon's friends who are always about our door," Rebecca said, laughing. "Did you ever see a bailiff, my dear? Two of the wretches watched all last week at the greengrocer's opposite, and we could not get away until Sunday. If Aunty does not relent, what shall we do?"


Rawdon, with roars of laughter, related a dozen amusing anecdotes of his duns, and Rebecca's adroit treatment of them. He vowed with a great oath that there was no woman in Europe who could talk a creditor over as she could. Almost immediately after their marriage, her practice had begun, and her husband found the immense value of such a wife. They had credit in plenty, but they had bills also in abundance, and laboured under a scarcity of ready money. Did these debt-difficulties affect Rawdon's good spirits? No. Everybody in Vanity Fair must have remarked how well those live who are comfortably and thoroughly in debt: how they deny themselves nothing; how jolly and easy they are in their minds. Rawdon and his wife had the very best apartments at the inn at Brighton; the landlord, as he brought in the first dish, bowed before them as to his greatest customers: and Rawdon abused the dinners and wine with an audacity which no grandee in the land could surpass. Long custom, a manly appearance, faultless boots and clothes, and a happy fierceness of manner, will often help a man as much as a great balance at the banker's.

Rawdon, with roars of laughter, related a dozen amusing anecdotes of his debts, and Rebecca's adroit treatment of them. He swore that there was no woman in Europe who could talk a creditor over as she could. They had credit in plenty, but also bills in abundance.
Did these difficulties affect Rawdon's good spirits? No. Everybody in Vanity Fair must have remarked how well those live who are comfortably in debt: how they deny themselves nothing. Rawdon and his wife had the very best apartments at the inn; the landlord bowed before them: and Rawdon abused the dinners and wine with the audacity of a grandee. A manly appearance, faultless boots and clothes, and a happy fierceness of manner, will often help a man as much as a large bank balance.


The two wedding parties met constantly in each other's apartments. After two or three nights the gentlemen of an evening had a little piquet, as their wives sate and chatted apart. This pastime, and the arrival of Jos Sedley, who made his appearance in his grand open carriage, and who played a few games at billiards with Captain Crawley, replenished Rawdon's purse somewhat, and gave him the benefit of that ready money for which the greatest spirits are sometimes at a stand-still.

The two couples met constantly. In the evening the gentlemen played a little piquet, as their wives sat and chatted. This pastime, and the arrival of Jos Sedley, who played a few games at billiards with Captain Crawley, replenished Rawdon's purse somewhat.


So the three gentlemen walked down to see the Lightning coach come in. Punctual to the minute, the coach crowded inside and out, the guard blowing his accustomed tune on the horn--the Lightning came tearing down the street, and pulled up at the coach-office.

So these three gentlemen walked down to see the Lightning coach come in. Punctual to the minute, it came tearing down the street, and pulled up at the coach-office.


"Hullo! there's old Dobbin," George cried, quite delighted to see his old friend perched on the roof; and whose promised visit to Brighton had been delayed until now. "How are you, old fellow? Glad you're come down. Emmy'll be delighted to see you," Osborne said, shaking his comrade warmly by the hand as soon as his descent from the vehicle was effected--and then he added, in a lower and agitated voice, "What's the news? Have you been in Russell Square? What does the governor say? Tell me everything."

"Hullo! there's old Dobbin," George cried, delighted to see his friend. "How are you, old fellow? Glad you're come down." Osborne shook his comrade's hand warmly - and then added, in a lower and agitated voice, "What's the news? Have you been in Russell Square? What does the governor say?"


Dobbin looked very pale and grave. "I've seen your father," said he. "How's Amelia--Mrs. George? I'll tell you all the news presently: but I've brought the great news of all: and that is--"

Dobbin looked very grave. "I've seen your father," said he. "How's Amelia? I'll tell you all the news presently: but the greatest news of all is


"We're ordered to Belgium. All the army goes--guards and all. Heavytop's got the gout, and is mad at not being able to move. O'Dowd goes in command, and we embark from Chatham next week." This news of war could not but come with a shock upon our lovers, and caused all these gentlemen to look very serious.

 - we're ordered to Belgium. All the army. O'Dowd goes in command, and we embark from Chatham next week."
This news of war came with a shock upon our lovers, and caused these gentlemen to look very serious.


Among the most respected of the names beginning in C which the Court-Guide contained, in the year 18--, was that of Crawley, Sir Pitt, Baronet, Great Gaunt Street, and Queen's Crawley, Hants. This honourable name had figured constantly also in the Parliamentary list for many years, in conjunction with that of a number of other worthy gentlemen who sat in turns for the borough.

Among the most respected names beginning with C in the Court-Guide was that of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet, of Great Gaunt Street, and of Queen's Crawley, Hampshire. This honourable name had been in the Parliamentary list for many years.


It is related, with regard to the borough of Queen's Crawley, that Queen Elizabeth in one of her progresses, stopping at Crawley to breakfast, was so delighted with some remarkably fine Hampshire beer which was then presented to her by the Crawley of the day (a handsome gentleman with a trim beard and a good leg), that she forthwith erected Crawley into a borough to send two members to Parliament; and the place, from the day of that illustrious visit, took the name of Queen's Crawley, which it holds up to the present moment. And though, by the lapse of time, and those mutations which age produces in empires, cities, and boroughs, Queen's Crawley was no longer so populous a place as it had been in Queen Bess's time--nay, was come down to that condition of borough which used to be denominated rotten--yet, as Sir Pitt Crawley would say with perfect justice in his elegant way, "Rotten! be hanged--it produces me a good fifteen hundred a year."

It is related, regarding the borough of Queen's Crawley, that Queen Elizabeth in one of her progresses stopped at Crawley for breakfast. She was so delighted with some remarkably fine beer which was presented to her by the Crawley of the day (a handsome gentleman with a trim beard and a good leg), that she forthwith made Crawley into a borough eligible to send two members to Parliament. The place took the name of Queen's Crawley.
And though it was no longer so populous a place as it had been in Queen Bess's time - nay, had so few voters that it might even be called a rotten borough - yet, as Sir Pitt Crawley would say in his elegant way, "Rotten! be hanged - it gives me a good fifteen hundred pounds a year."


Sir Pitt Crawley (named after the great Commoner) was the son of Walpole Crawley, first Baronet, of the Tape and Sealing-Wax Office in the reign of George II., when he was impeached for peculation, as were a great number of other honest gentlemen of those days; and Walpole Crawley was, as need scarcely be said, son of John Churchill Crawley, named after the celebrated military commander of the reign of Queen Anne. The family tree (which hangs up at Queen's Crawley) furthermore mentions Charles Stuart, afterwards called Barebones Crawley, son of the Crawley of James the First's time; and finally, Queen Elizabeth's Crawley, who is represented as the foreground of the picture in his forked beard and armour. Out of his waistcoat, as usual, grows a tree, on the main branches of which the above illustrious names are inscribed. Close by the name of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet (the subject of the present memoir), are written that of his brother, the Reverend Bute Crawley (the great Commoner was in disgrace when the reverend gentleman was born), rector of Crawley-cum-Snailby, and of various other male and female members of the Crawley family.

Sir Pitt Crawley (named after the great politician) was the son of Walpole Crawley, first Baronet, of the Tape and Sealing-Wax Office in George II's reign, who was impeached for embezzlement, as were a great many other honest gentlemen of those days. The family tree mentions Charles Stuart "Barebones" Crawley, of James the First's time; and Queen Elizabeth's Crawley. Close by the name of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet, is written that of his brother, the Reverend Bute Crawley, rector of Crawley-cum-Snailby.


Sir Pitt was first married to Grizzel, sixth daughter of Mungo Binkie, Lord Binkie, and cousin, in consequence, of Mr. Dundas. She brought him two sons: Pitt, named not so much after his father as after the heaven-born minister; and Rawdon Crawley, from the Prince of Wales's friend, whom his Majesty George IV forgot so completely. Many years after her ladyship's demise, Sir Pitt led to the altar Rosa, daughter of Mr. G. Dawson, of Mudbury, by whom he had two daughters, for whose benefit Miss Rebecca Sharp was now engaged as governess. It will be seen that the young lady was come into a family of very genteel connexions, and was about to move in a much more distinguished circle than that humble one which she had just quitted in Russell Square.

Sir Pitt was first married to Grizzel, sixth daughter of Mungo, Lord Binkie. She bore him two sons: Pitt junior, and Rawdon Crawley. Many years after her ladyship's death, Sir Pitt married Rosa Dawson of Mudbury, by whom he had two daughters. For their benefit Miss Rebecca Sharp was now engaged as governess. It will be seen that the young lady was come into a family of very genteel connexions, and a much more distinguished circle than that humble one she had just quitted in Russell Square.


She had received her orders to join her pupils, in a note which was written upon an old envelope, and which contained the following words:

She had received her orders in a note written upon an old envelope, which said:


Sir Pitt Crawley begs Miss Sharp and baggidge may be hear on Tuesday, as I leaf for Queen's Crawley to-morrow morning ERLY.

Sir Pitt Crawley begs Miss Sharp and baggidge may be hear on Tuesday, as I leaf for Queen's Crawley tomorrow morning ERLY.


Rebecca had never seen a Baronet, as far as she knew, and as soon as she had taken leave of Amelia, and counted the guineas which good-natured Mr. Sedley had put into a purse for her, and as soon as she had done wiping her eyes with her handkerchief (which operation she concluded the very moment the carriage had turned the corner of the street), she began to depict in her own mind what a Baronet must be. "I wonder, does he wear a star?" thought she, "or is it only lords that wear stars? But he will be very handsomely dressed in a court suit, with ruffles, and his hair a little powdered, like Mr. Wroughton at Covent Garden. I suppose he will be awfully proud, and that I shall be treated most contemptuously. Still I must bear my hard lot as well as I can--at least, I shall be amongst GENTLEFOLKS, and not with vulgar city people": and she fell to thinking of her Russell Square friends with that very same philosophical bitterness with which, in a certain apologue, the fox is represented as speaking of the grapes.

Rebecca had never seen a Baronet, and as soon as she had said goodbye to Amelia, and counted the money which Mr. Sedley had given her, and had finished wiping her eyes (just as the carriage turned the corner), she began to imagine what a Baronet must be.
"I wonder, does he wear a star?" thought she. "He will be very handsomely dressed in a court suit, with ruffles, and his hair powdered. I suppose he will be awfully proud, and that I shall be treated contemptuously. Still, at least I shall be amongst gentlefolks, and not vulgar city people."


Having passed through Gaunt Square into Great Gaunt Street, the carriage at length stopped at a tall gloomy house between two other tall gloomy houses, each with a hatchment over the middle drawing-room window; as is the custom of houses in Great Gaunt Street, in which gloomy locality death seems to reign perpetual. The shutters of the first-floor windows of Sir Pitt's mansion were closed--those of the dining-room were partially open, and the blinds neatly covered up in old newspapers.

The carriage entered Great Gaunt Street and stopped at a tall gloomy house between two other tall gloomy houses. This was Sir Pitt's mansion. The shutters of the first-floor windows were closed; those of the dining-room were partially open, and the blinds neatly covered in old newspapers.


John, the groom, who had driven the carriage alone, did not care to descend to ring the bell; and so prayed a passing milk-boy to perform that office for him. When the bell was rung, a head appeared between the interstices of the dining-room shutters, and the door was opened by a man in drab breeches and gaiters, with a dirty old coat, a foul old neckcloth lashed round his bristly neck, a shining bald head, a leering red face, a pair of twinkling grey eyes, and a mouth perpetually on the grin.

John, the groom who had driven the carriage, asked a passing milk-boy to ring the bell for him. The door was opened by a man in drab breeches and a dirty old coat, with a foul old neckcloth lashed round his bristly neck, a shining bald head, a leering red face, a pair of twinkling grey eyes, and a mouth perpetually grinning.


"This Sir Pitt Crawley's?" says John, from the box.


"Ees," says the man at the door, with a nod.

"Ees," said the man at the door, with a nod.


"Hand down these 'ere trunks then," said John.


"Hand 'n down yourself," said the porter.


"Don't you see I can't leave my hosses? Come, bear a hand, my fine feller, and Miss will give you some beer," said John, with a horse-laugh, for he was no longer respectful to Miss Sharp, as her connexion with the family was broken off, and as she had given nothing to the servants on coming away.

"Don't you see I can't leave my hosses? Come, lend a hand, and Miss will give you some beer," said John.


The bald-headed man, taking his hands out of his breeches pockets, advanced on this summons, and throwing Miss Sharp's trunk over his shoulder, carried it into the house.

The bald man, taking his hands out of his pockets, threw Miss Sharp's trunk over his shoulder, and carried it into the house.


"Take this basket and shawl, if you please, and open the door," said Miss Sharp, and descended from the carriage in much indignation. "I shall write to Mr. Sedley and inform him of your conduct," said she to the groom.

"Take this basket and shawl, if you please, and open the door," said Miss Sharp, descending from the carriage in indignation. "I shall write to Mr. Sedley and inform him of your conduct," said she to the groom.


"Don't," replied that functionary. "I hope you've forgot nothink? Miss 'Melia's gownds--have you got them--as the lady's maid was to have 'ad? I hope they'll fit you. Shut the door, Jim, you'll get no good out of 'ER," continued John, pointing with his thumb towards Miss Sharp: "a bad lot, I tell you, a bad lot," and so saying, Mr. Sedley's groom drove away. The truth is, he was attached to the lady's maid in question, and indignant that she should have been robbed of her perquisites.

"Don't," he replied. "I hope you've got Miss 'Melia's gowns, as the lady's maid was to have 'ad? Shut the door, Jim, you'll get no good out of 'ER," he continued, pointing his thumb towards Miss Sharp: "a bad lot, I tell you."
So saying, he drove away. The truth is, he was attached to the lady's maid in question, who had been robbed of her dresses.


On entering the dining-room, by the orders of the individual in gaiters, Rebecca found that apartment not more cheerful than such rooms usually are, when genteel families are out of town. The faithful chambers seem, as it were, to mourn the absence of their masters. The turkey carpet has rolled itself up, and retired sulkily under the sideboard: the pictures have hidden their faces behind old sheets of brown paper: the ceiling lamp is muffled up in a dismal sack of brown holland: the window-curtains have disappeared under all sorts of shabby envelopes: the marble bust of Sir Walpole Crawley is looking from its black corner at the bare boards and the oiled fire-irons, and the empty card-racks over the mantelpiece: the cellaret has lurked away behind the carpet: the chairs are turned up heads and tails along the walls: and in the dark corner opposite the statue, is an old-fashioned crabbed knife-box, locked and sitting on a dumb waiter.

Rebecca entered the dining-room. The carpet was rolled up under the sideboard: the pictures were hidden behind old sheets of brown paper: the ceiling lamp was muffled in a sack. The marble bust of Sir Walpole Crawley was looking from its black corner at the bare boards: the chairs were turned up heads and tails along the wall.


Two kitchen chairs, and a round table, and an attenuated old poker and tongs were, however, gathered round the fire-place, as was a saucepan over a feeble sputtering fire. There was a bit of cheese and bread, and a tin candlestick on the table, and a little black porter in a pint-pot.

Two kitchen chairs, a round table, and an old poker and tongs were, however, gathered round the fire-place, as was a saucepan over a feeble sputtering fire. There was a bit of cheese and bread and a tin candlestick on the table, and a little black beer in a pint-pot.


"Had your dinner, I suppose? It is not too warm for you? Like a drop of beer?"

"Had your dinner, I suppose?" said the bald man. "Like a drop of beer?"


"Where is Sir Pitt Crawley?" said Miss Sharp majestically.


"He, he! I'm Sir Pitt Crawley. Reklect you owe me a pint for bringing down your luggage. He, he! Ask Tinker if I aynt. Mrs. Tinker, Miss Sharp; Miss Governess, Mrs. Charwoman. Ho, ho!"

"He, he! I'm Sir Pitt Crawley. Reklect you owe me a pint for bringing down your luggage. He, he! Ask Tinker if I aynt. Mrs. Tinker, meet Miss Sharp; Miss Governess, meet Mrs. Charwoman. Ho, ho!"


The lady addressed as Mrs. Tinker at this moment made her appearance with a pipe and a paper of tobacco, for which she had been despatched a minute before Miss Sharp's arrival; and she handed the articles over to Sir Pitt, who had taken his seat by the fire.

The lady addressed as Mrs. Tinker now appeared with a pipe and tobacco, for which she had been sent a minute before Miss Sharp's arrival. She handed these over to Sir Pitt, who took his seat by the fire.


"Where's the farden?" said he. "I gave you three halfpence. Where's the change, old Tinker?"

"Where's the farthing?" said he. "I gave you three halfpence. Where's the change, old Tinker?"


"There!" replied Mrs. Tinker, flinging down the coin; "it's only baronets as cares about farthings."


"A farthing a day is seven shillings a year," answered the M.P.; "seven shillings a year is the interest of seven guineas. Take care of your farthings, old Tinker, and your guineas will come quite nat'ral."

"A farthing a day is seven shillings a year," answered the Member of Parliament; "seven shillings a year is the interest of seven guineas. Take care of your farthings, old Tinker, and your guineas will come quite nat'ral."


"You may be sure it's Sir Pitt Crawley, young woman," said Mrs. Tinker, surlily; "because he looks to his farthings. You'll know him better afore long."

"You may be sure it's Sir Pitt Crawley, young woman," said Mrs. Tinker, surlily, "because he looks to his farthings. You'll know him better afore long."


"And like me none the worse, Miss Sharp," said the old gentleman, with an air almost of politeness. "I must be just before I'm generous."

"And like me none the worse, Miss Sharp," said the old gentleman, almost politely.


"He never gave away a farthing in his life," growled Tinker.


"Never, and never will: it's against my principle. Go and get another chair from the kitchen, Tinker, if you want to sit down; and then we'll have a bit of supper."

"Get another chair from the kitchen, Tinker; and then we'll have supper."


Presently the baronet plunged a fork into the saucepan on the fire, and withdrew from the pot a piece of tripe and an onion, which he divided into pretty equal portions, and of which he partook with Mrs. Tinker. "You see, Miss Sharp, when I'm not here Tinker's on board wages: when I'm in town she dines with the family. Haw! haw! I'm glad Miss Sharp's not hungry, ain't you, Tink?" And they fell to upon their frugal supper.

The baronet plunged a fork into the saucepan on the fire, and withdrew a piece of tripe and an onion, which he divided into equal portions.
"You see, Miss Sharp, when I'm in town Tinker dines with the family. Haw! haw! I'm glad Miss Sharp's not hungry, ain't you, Tink?" And they fell to upon their frugal supper.


After supper Sir Pitt Crawley began to smoke his pipe; and when it became quite dark, he lighted the rushlight in the tin candlestick, and producing from an interminable pocket a huge mass of papers, began reading them, and putting them in order.

After supper Sir Pitt Crawley began to smoke his pipe; and when it became quite dark, he lit the rushlight in the tin candlestick, and producing from his pocket a huge mass of papers, began reading them.


"I'm here on law business, my dear, and that's how it happens that I shall have the pleasure of such a pretty travelling companion to-morrow."

"I'm here in London on law business, my dear, and that's why I shall have such a pretty travelling companion tomorrow."


"He's always at law business," said Mrs. Tinker, taking up the pot of porter.

"He's always at law business," said Mrs. Tinker.


"Drink and drink about," said the Baronet. "Yes; my dear, Tinker is quite right: I've lost and won more lawsuits than any man in England. Look here at Crawley, Bart. v. Snaffle. I'll throw him over, or my name's not Pitt Crawley. Podder and another versus Crawley, Bart. Overseers of Snaily parish against Crawley, Bart. They can't prove it's common: I'll defy 'em; the land's mine. It no more belongs to the parish than it does to you or Tinker here. I'll beat 'em, if it cost me a thousand guineas. Look over the papers; you may if you like, my dear. Do you write a good hand? I'll make you useful when we're at Queen's Crawley, depend on it, Miss Sharp. Now the dowager's dead I want some one."

"Tinker is quite right," said the Baronet. "I've lost and won more lawsuits than any man in England. Look here: Crawley, Baronet v. Snaffle. I'll throw him over, or my name's not Pitt Crawley. Overseers of Snaily parish against Crawley, Baronet. They can't prove it's common land: I'll defy 'em; the land's mine. I'll beat 'em, if it costs me a thousand guineas. Look over the papers if you like, my dear. Do you write a good hand? I'll make you useful when we're at Queen's Crawley. Now the dowager's dead I need someone."


"She was as bad as he," said Tinker. "She took the law of every one of her tradesmen; and turned away forty-eight footmen in four year."

"She was as bad as he," said Tinker. "She took every one of her tradesmen to court; and turned away forty-eight footmen in four year."


"She was close--very close," said the Baronet, simply; "but she was a valyble woman to me, and saved me a steward."--And in this confidential strain, and much to the amusement of the new-comer, the conversation continued for a considerable time. Whatever Sir Pitt Crawley's qualities might be, good or bad, he did not make the least disguise of them. He talked of himself incessantly, sometimes in the coarsest and vulgarest Hampshire accent; sometimes adopting the tone of a man of the world. And so, with injunctions to Miss Sharp to be ready at five in the morning, he bade her good night. "You'll sleep with Tinker to-night," he said; "it's a big bed, and there's room for two. Lady Crawley died in it. Good night."

"She was very close," said the Baronet, simply; "but she was a valyble woman to me, and saved me a steward."
And in this strain, to Rebecca's amusement, the conversation continued. Sir Pitt talked of himself incessantly, sometimes in the vulgarest Hampshire accent; sometimes adopting the tone of a man of the world.
At last he told Miss Sharp to be ready at five in the morning. "You'll sleep with Tinker tonight," he said; "it's a big bed, and there's room for two. Lady Crawley died in it. Good night."


Sir Pitt went off after this benediction, and the solemn Tinker, rushlight in hand, led the way up the great bleak stone stairs, past the great dreary drawing-room doors, with the handles muffled up in paper, into the great front bedroom, where Lady Crawley had slept her last. The bed and chamber were so funereal and gloomy, you might have fancied, not only that Lady Crawley died in the room, but that her ghost inhabited it. Rebecca sprang about the apartment, however, with the greatest liveliness, and had peeped into the huge wardrobes, and the closets, and the cupboards, and tried the drawers which were locked, and examined the dreary pictures and toilette appointments, while the old charwoman was saying her prayers. "I shouldn't like to sleep in this yeer bed without a good conscience, Miss," said the old woman. "There's room for us and a half-dozen of ghosts in it," says Rebecca. "Tell me all about Lady Crawley and Sir Pitt Crawley, and everybody, my DEAR Mrs. Tinker."

Sir Pitt went off, and the solemn Tinker led the way up the great bleak stone stairs, past great drawing-room doors, with the handles muffled up in paper, into the great front bedroom. It was so funereal and gloomy, you might have fancied that not only had Lady Crawley died in the room, but that her ghost inhabited it. Rebecca peeped into the huge wardrobes and cupboards, and tried the locked drawers, while the old charwoman was saying her prayers.
"I shouldn't like to sleep in this bed without a good conscience, Miss," said the old woman.
"There's room for us and half a dozen ghosts in it," says Rebecca. "Tell me all about Lady Crawley and Sir Pitt Crawley, my dear Mrs. Tinker."


But old Tinker was not to be pumped by this little cross-questioner; and signifying to her that bed was a place for sleeping, not conversation, set up in her corner of the bed such a snore as only the nose of innocence can produce. Rebecca lay awake for a long, long time, thinking of the morrow, and of the new world into which she was going, and of her chances of success there. The rushlight flickered in the basin. The mantelpiece cast up a great black shadow, over half of a mouldy old sampler, which her defunct ladyship had worked, no doubt, and over two little family pictures of young lads, one in a college gown, and the other in a red jacket like a soldier. When she went to sleep, Rebecca chose that one to dream about.

But old Tinker was not to be pumped, and soon set up a loud snore. Rebecca lay awake, thinking of the new world into which she was going, and of her chances of success there.
The rushlight flickered in the basin. The mantelpiece cast a great black shadow over two family pictures of young lads that hung there, one in a college gown, and the other in a red jacket like a soldier. When she went to sleep, Rebecca chose that one to dream about.


At four o'clock, on such a roseate summer's morning as even made Great Gaunt Street look cheerful, the faithful Tinker, having wakened her bedfellow, and bid her prepare for departure, unbarred and unbolted the great hall door (the clanging and clapping whereof startled the sleeping echoes in the street), and taking her way into Oxford Street, summoned a coach from a stand there. It is needless to particularize the number of the vehicle, or to state that the driver was stationed thus early in the neighbourhood of Swallow Street, in hopes that some young buck, reeling homeward from the tavern, might need the aid of his vehicle, and pay him with the generosity of intoxication.

At four o'clock, Tinker wakened her, and bid her prepare for departure. Unbolting the great hall door with a clang, she summoned a coach to take them to the public carriage in the City.


It is likewise needless to say that the driver, if he had any such hopes as those above stated, was grossly disappointed; and that the worthy Baronet whom he drove to the City did not give him one single penny more than his fare. It was in vain that Jehu appealed and stormed; that he flung down Miss Sharp's bandboxes in the gutter at the 'Necks, and swore he would take the law of his fare.

The driver was not happy when, on arriving there, Sir Pitt refused to tip him. He flung down Miss Sharp's bandboxes in the gutter, and swore he would take him to law.


"You'd better not," said one of the ostlers; "it's Sir Pitt Crawley."


"So it is, Joe," cried the Baronet, approvingly; "and I'd like to see the man can do me."

"So it is, Joe," cried the Baronet, and he climbed up onto the box of the public carriage.


"So should oi," said Joe, grinning sulkily, and mounting the Baronet's baggage on the roof of the coach.


"Keep the box for me, Leader," exclaims the Member of Parliament to the coachman; who replied, "Yes, Sir Pitt," with a touch of his hat, and rage in his soul (for he had promised the box to a young gentleman from Cambridge, who would have given a crown to a certainty), and Miss Sharp was accommodated with a back seat inside the carriage, which might be said to be carrying her into the wide world.


How the young man from Cambridge sulkily put his five great-coats in front; but was reconciled when little Miss Sharp was made to quit the carriage, and mount up beside him--when he covered her up in one of his Benjamins, and became perfectly good-humoured--how the asthmatic gentleman, the prim lady, who declared upon her sacred honour she had never travelled in a public carriage before (there is always such a lady in a coach--Alas! was; for the coaches, where are they?), and the fat widow with the brandy-bottle, took their places inside--how the porter asked them all for money, and got sixpence from the gentleman and five greasy halfpence from the fat widow--and how the carriage at length drove away--now threading the dark lanes of Aldersgate, anon clattering by the Blue Cupola of St. Paul's, jingling rapidly by the strangers' entry of Fleet-Market, which, with Exeter 'Change, has now departed to the world of shadows--how they passed the White Bear in Piccadilly, and saw the dew rising up from the market-gardens of Knightsbridge--how Turnhamgreen, Brentwood, Bagshot, were passed--need not be told here. But the writer of these pages, who has pursued in former days, and in the same bright weather, the same remarkable journey, cannot but think of it with a sweet and tender regret. Where is the road now, and its merry incidents of life? Is there no Chelsea or Greenwich for the old honest pimple-nosed coachmen? I wonder where are they, those good fellows? Is old Weller alive or dead? and the waiters, yea, and the inns at which they waited, and the cold rounds of beef inside, and the stunted ostler, with his blue nose and clinking pail, where is he, and where is his generation? To those great geniuses now in petticoats, who shall write novels for the beloved reader's children, these men and things will be as much legend and history as Nineveh, or Coeur de Lion, or Jack Sheppard. For them stage-coaches will have become romances--a team of four bays as fabulous as Bucephalus or Black Bess. Ah, how their coats shone, as the stable-men pulled their clothes off, and away they went--ah, how their tails shook, as with smoking sides at the stage's end they demurely walked away into the inn-yard. Alas! we shall never hear the horn sing at midnight, or see the pike-gates fly open any more. Whither, however, is the light four-inside Trafalgar coach carrying us? Let us be set down at Queen's Crawley without further divagation, and see how Miss Rebecca Sharp speeds there.

Miss Sharp sat inside next to a young man from Cambridge; along with an asthmatic gentleman, a prim lady who declared she had never travelled in a public carriage before, and a fat widow with a brandy-bottle. How the carriage at length drove away - threading the dark lanes of Aldersgate, clattering by St. Paul's and the White Bear at Piccadilly, until they saw the dew rising up from the market-gardens of Knightsbridge - need not be told.
But I cannot think of this journey without tender regret. Where is the road now? and those old honest pimple-nosed coachmen? and the waiters, and their inns, and the cold rounds of beef inside, and the stunted ostler, with his blue nose and clinking pail, where is he? To future generations, these things will be as much legend as Nineveh - stage-coaches will have become romances - a team of four bays as fabulous as Bucephalus. Alas! we shall never hear the horn sing at midnight, or see the pike-gates fly open any more.
Where is the coach carrying us? Let us be set down at Queen's Crawley, and see how Miss Rebecca Sharp fares there.


Becky did not rally from the state of stupor and confusion in which the events of the previous night had plunged her intrepid spirit until the bells of the Curzon Street Chapels were ringing for afternoon service, and rising from her bed she began to ply her own bell, in order to summon the French maid who had left her some hours before.

Becky did not rally from the stupor and confusion into which events had plunged her until the chapel bells were ringing for afternoon service. Rising from her bed, she rang her own bell to summon the French maid.

Chapter 55: In Which the Same Subject is Pursued


Mrs. Rawdon Crawley rang many times in vain; and though, on the last occasion, she rang with such vehemence as to pull down the bell-rope, Mademoiselle Fifine did not make her appearance--no, not though her mistress, in a great pet, and with the bell-rope in her hand, came out to the landing-place with her hair over her shoulders and screamed out repeatedly for her attendant.

She rang many times in vain; and came out to the landing with her hair over her shoulders and screamed out repeatedly for her attendant. Mademoiselle Fifine did not appear.


The truth is, she had quitted the premises for many hours, and upon that permission which is called French leave among us. After picking up the trinkets in the drawing-room, Mademoiselle had ascended to her own apartments, packed and corded her own boxes there, tripped out and called a cab for herself, brought down her trunks with her own hand, and without ever so much as asking the aid of any of the other servants, who would probably have refused it, as they hated her cordially, and without wishing any one of them good-bye, had made her exit from Curzon Street.

The truth is, she had left the house many hours earlier. After picking up the trinkets in the drawing-room, Mademoiselle had ascended to her own apartments, packed her boxes, brought them down herself and called a cab without asking the aid of any of the other servants; and had made her exit from Curzon Street.


The game, in her opinion, was over in that little domestic establishment. Fifine went off in a cab, as we have known more exalted persons of her nation to do under similar circumstances: but, more provident or lucky than these, she secured not only her own property, but some of her mistress's (if indeed that lady could be said to have any property at all)--and not only carried off the trinkets before alluded to, and some favourite dresses on which she had long kept her eye, but four richly gilt Louis Quatorze candlesticks, six gilt albums, keepsakes, and Books of Beauty, a gold enamelled snuff-box which had once belonged to Madame du Barri, and the sweetest little inkstand and mother-of-pearl blotting book, which Becky used when she composed her charming little pink notes, had vanished from the premises in Curzon Street together with Mademoiselle Fifine, and all the silver laid on the table for the little festin which Rawdon interrupted. The plated ware Mademoiselle left behind her was too cumbrous, probably for which reason, no doubt, she also left the fire irons, the chimney-glasses, and the rosewood cottage piano.

She carried off not only the trinkets, but some favourite dresses on which she had long kept her eye, four gilt Louis Quatorze candlesticks, six albums and Books of Beauty, a gold enamelled snuff-box, and Becky's little inkstand and mother-of-pearl blotting book. The silver-plated ware was too cumbrous and was left behind; probably for the same reason, she left the fire irons and the piano.


A lady very like her subsequently kept a milliner's shop in the Rue du Helder at Paris, where she lived with great credit and enjoyed the patronage of my Lord Steyne. This person always spoke of England as of the most treacherous country in the world, and stated to her young pupils that she had been affreusement vole by natives of that island. It was no doubt compassion for her misfortunes which induced the Marquis of Steyne to be so very kind to Madame de Saint-Amaranthe. May she flourish as she deserves--she appears no more in our quarter of Vanity Fair.


Hearing a buzz and a stir below, and indignant at the impudence of those servants who would not answer her summons, Mrs. Crawley flung her morning robe round her and descended majestically to the drawing-room, whence the noise proceeded.

Hearing a stir below, and indignant at those servants who would not answer her summons, Mrs. Crawley flung her morning robe around her and descended majestically to the drawing-room.


The cook was there with blackened face, seated on the beautiful chintz sofa by the side of Mrs. Raggles, to whom she was administering Maraschino. The page with the sugar-loaf buttons, who carried about Becky's pink notes, and jumped about her little carriage with such alacrity, was now engaged putting his fingers into a cream dish; the footman was talking to Raggles, who had a face full of perplexity and woe--and yet, though the door was open, and Becky had been screaming a half-dozen of times a few feet off, not one of her attendants had obeyed her call. "Have a little drop, do'ee now, Mrs. Raggles," the cook was saying as Becky entered, the white cashmere dressing-gown flouncing around her.

The cook was there with blackened face, seated on the beautiful chintz sofa next to Mrs. Raggles, to whom she was giving Maraschino. The page had his fingers in the cream dish; the footman was talking to Raggles, who looked woeful and perplexed. Though Becky had screamed half-dozen times, not one servant had obeyed her call.
"Have a little drop, do'ee now, Mrs. Raggles," the cook was saying as Becky entered.


"Simpson! Trotter!" the mistress of the house cried in great wrath. "How dare you stay here when you heard me call? How dare you sit down in my presence? Where's my maid?" The page withdrew his fingers from his mouth with a momentary terror, but the cook took off a glass of Maraschino, of which Mrs. Raggles had had enough, staring at Becky over the little gilt glass as she drained its contents. The liquor appeared to give the odious rebel courage.

"Simpson! Trotter!" Mrs. Crawley cried in great wrath. "How dare you stay here when you heard me call? How dare you sit on my sofa? Where's my maid?"
The cook took a glass of Maraschino, staring at Becky as she drained its contents.


"YOUR sofy, indeed!" Mrs. Cook said. "I'm a settin' on Mrs. Raggles's sofy. Don't you stir, Mrs. Raggles, Mum. I'm a settin' on Mr. and Mrs. Raggles's sofy, which they bought with honest money, and very dear it cost 'em, too. And I'm thinkin' if I set here until I'm paid my wages, I shall set a precious long time, Mrs. Raggles; and set I will, too--ha! ha!" and with this she filled herself another glass of the liquor and drank it with a more hideously satirical air.

"YOUR sofy, indeed!" Mrs. Cook said. "I'm a settin' on Mrs. Raggles's sofy. Don't you stir, Mrs. Raggles, Mum. I'm a settin' on Mr. and Mrs. Raggles's sofy, and I'm thinkin' if I set here until I'm paid my wages, I shall set a precious long time, ha! ha!" and with this she filled herself another glass of liquor .


"Trotter! Simpson! turn that drunken wretch out," screamed Mrs. Crawley.


"I shawn't," said Trotter the footman; "turn out yourself. Pay our selleries, and turn me out too. WE'LL go fast enough."

"I shan't," said Trotter the footman; "turn out yourself. Pay our salaries, and we'll go fast enough."


"Are you all here to insult me?" cried Becky in a fury; "when Colonel Crawley comes home I'll--"

"Are you all here to insult me?" cried Becky in a fury; "when Colonel Crawley comes home I'll-"


At this the servants burst into a horse haw-haw, in which, however, Raggles, who still kept a most melancholy countenance, did not join. "He ain't a coming back," Mr. Trotter resumed. "He sent for his things, and I wouldn't let 'em go, although Mr. Raggles would; and I don't b'lieve he's no more a Colonel than I am. He's hoff, and I suppose you're a goin' after him. You're no better than swindlers, both on you. Don't be a bullyin' ME. I won't stand it. Pay us our selleries, I say. Pay us our selleries." It was evident, from Mr. Trotter's flushed countenance and defective intonation, that he, too, had had recourse to vinous stimulus.

At this the servants burst into laughter.
"He ain't a coming back," Mr. Trotter said. "He sent for his things, but I wouldn't let 'em go. I don't b'lieve he's no more a Colonel than I am. He's hoff, and I suppose you're a goin' after him. You're swindlers, both on you. Don't be a bullyin' me. Pay us our salaries, I say." It was evident from Mr. Trotter's flushed face and speech that he, too, had been drinking.


"Mr. Raggles," said Becky in a passion of vexation, "you will not surely let me be insulted by that drunken man?" "Hold your noise, Trotter; do now," said Simpson the page. He was affected by his mistress's deplorable situation, and succeeded in preventing an outrageous denial of the epithet "drunken" on the footman's part.

"Mr. Raggles," said Becky in a passion of vexation, "you will surely not let me be insulted by that drunken man?"


"Oh, M'am," said Raggles, "I never thought to live to see this year day: I've known the Crawley family ever since I was born. I lived butler with Miss Crawley for thirty years; and I little thought one of that family was a goin' to ruing me--yes, ruing me"--said the poor fellow with tears in his eyes. "Har you a goin' to pay me? You've lived in this 'ouse four year. You've 'ad my substance: my plate and linning. You ho me a milk and butter bill of two 'undred pound, you must 'ave noo laid heggs for your homlets, and cream for your spanil dog."

"Oh, Ma'am," said Raggles, "I've known the Crawley family ever since I was born. I little thought one of that family was a goin' to ruin me. Har you a goin' to pay me? You've lived in this 'ouse four year. You ho me a milk and butter bill of two 'undred pound, for you must have cream for your spanil dog."


"She didn't care what her own flesh and blood had," interposed the cook. "Many's the time, he'd have starved but for me."

"She didn't care what her own son had," interposed the cook. "He'd have starved but for me."


"He's a charaty-boy now, Cooky," said Mr. Trotter, with a drunken "ha! ha!"--and honest Raggles continued, in a lamentable tone, an enumeration of his griefs. All he said was true. Becky and her husband had ruined him. He had bills coming due next week and no means to meet them. He would be sold up and turned out of his shop and his house, because he had trusted to the Crawley family. His tears and lamentations made Becky more peevish than ever.

"He's a charity-boy now," said Mr. Trotter. Honest Raggles continued lamenting his griefs. All he said was true: Becky and her husband had ruined him. He had no means to pay his bills. He would be turned out of his shop and his house because he had trusted the Crawley family.


"You all seem to be against me," she said bitterly. "What do you want? I can't pay you on Sunday. Come back to-morrow and I'll pay you everything. I thought Colonel Crawley had settled with you. He will to-morrow. I declare to you upon my honour that he left home this morning with fifteen hundred pounds in his pocket-book. He has left me nothing. Apply to him. Give me a bonnet and shawl and let me go out and find him. There was a difference between us this morning. You all seem to know it. I promise you upon my word that you shall all be paid. He has got a good appointment. Let me go out and find him."

"You all seem to be against me," said Becky bitterly. "I can't pay you today. Come back tomorrow and I'll pay you everything. I thought Colonel Crawley had settled with you. He will tomorrow. Upon my honour, he left home this morning with fifteen hundred pounds in his pocket-book. He has left me nothing. There was a quarrel between us, as you seem to know. But he has got a good appointment; you shall all be paid. Let me go out and find him."


This audacious statement caused Raggles and the other personages present to look at one another with a wild surprise, and with it Rebecca left them. She went upstairs and dressed herself this time without the aid of her French maid. She went into Rawdon's room, and there saw that a trunk and bag were packed ready for removal, with a pencil direction that they should be given when called for; then she went into the Frenchwoman's garret; everything was clean, and all the drawers emptied there. She bethought herself of the trinkets which had been left on the ground and felt certain that the woman had fled. "Good Heavens! was ever such ill luck as mine?" she said; "to be so near, and to lose all. Is it all too late?" No; there was one chance more.

At this, Raggles and the servants looked at each other with wild surprise. Rebecca went upstairs and dressed herself. She went into Rawdon's room, where she saw a trunk and bag packed ready for removal, with a note that they should be given when called for. Then she went into the Frenchwoman's garret, where everything was clean, and all the drawers empty.
"Good Heavens! was ever such bad luck as mine?" she said; "to be so near, and to lose all. Is it too late?"
No; there was one chance more.


She dressed herself and went away unmolested this time, but alone. It was four o'clock. She went swiftly down the streets (she had no money to pay for a carriage), and never stopped until she came to Sir Pitt Crawley's door, in Great Gaunt Street. Where was Lady Jane Crawley? She was at church. Becky was not sorry. Sir Pitt was in his study, and had given orders not to be disturbed--she must see him--she slipped by the sentinel in livery at once, and was in Sir Pitt's room before the astonished Baronet had even laid down the paper.

Once dressed, she went away alone. It was four o'clock. She walked swiftly down the streets to Sir Pitt Crawley's door, in Great Gaunt Street. Lady Jane was at church, but Sir Pitt was in his study. She must see him - she slipped past the servant, and was in Sir Pitt's room before the astonished Baronet had even laid down the paper.


He turned red and started back from her with a look of great alarm and horror.

He turned red and gave her a look of great alarm and horror.


"Do not look so," she said. "I am not guilty, Pitt, dear Pitt; you were my friend once. Before God, I am not guilty. I seem so. Everything is against me. And oh! at such a moment! just when all my hopes were about to be realized: just when happiness was in store for us."

"Do not look so," she said. "I am not guilty, dear Pitt; before God, I am not guilty, but everything is against me. And oh! just when all my hopes were about to be realized: just when happiness was in store for us."


"Is this true, what I see in the paper then?" Sir Pitt said--a paragraph in which had greatly surprised him.

"Is this true, then, what I see in the paper?" Sir Pitt said. He had read a paragraph there which had greatly surprised him.


"It is true. Lord Steyne told me on Friday night, the night of that fatal ball. He has been promised an appointment any time these six months. Mr. Martyr, the Colonial Secretary, told him yesterday that it was made out. That unlucky arrest ensued; that horrible meeting. I was only guilty of too much devotedness to Rawdon's service. I have received Lord Steyne alone a hundred times before. I confess I had money of which Rawdon knew nothing. Don't you know how careless he is of it, and could I dare to confide it to him?" And so she went on with a perfectly connected story, which she poured into the ears of her perplexed kinsman.

"It is true. Lord Steyne told me on the night of that fatal ball. He has been promised an appointment these six months. The Colonial Secretary told him yesterday that it was arranged. Then that unlucky arrest followed; that horrible meeting. I was only guilty of being too devoted to Rawdon's service. I have received Lord Steyne alone a hundred times before. I confess I had money of which Rawdon knew nothing. Don't you know how careless he is of it?" And so she went on with a perfectly connected story.