The draft was upon our friends Hulker and Bullock of Lombard Street, to whose house, still thinking he was doing business, George bent his way, and from whom he received his money. Frederick Bullock, Esq., whose yellow face was over a ledger, at which sate a demure clerk, happened to be in the banking-room when George entered. His yellow face turned to a more deadly colour when he saw the Captain, and he slunk back guiltily into the inmost parlour. George was too busy gloating over the money (for he had never had such a sum before), to mark the countenance or flight of the cadaverous suitor of his sister.

George went next to the bank, Hulker and Bullock, to draw out the two thousand pounds. Frederick Bullock happened to be in the banking-room when George entered. He went pale when he saw the Captain, and slunk back guiltily into the inmost parlour. George was too busy gloating over the money (for he had never had such a sum before) to mark the flight of his sister's suitor.


Fred Bullock told old Osborne of his son's appearance and conduct. "He came in as bold as brass," said Frederick. "He has drawn out every shilling. How long will a few hundred pounds last such a chap as that?" Osborne swore with a great oath that he little cared when or how soon he spent it. Fred dined every day in Russell Square now. But altogether, George was highly pleased with his day's business. All his own baggage and outfit was put into a state of speedy preparation, and he paid Amelia's purchases with cheques on his agents, and with the splendour of a lord.

Fred Bullock later told old Osborne of his son's appearance. "He came in as bold as brass. He has drawn out every shilling. How long will it last such a chap as that?" Old Osborne swore with a great oath that he did not care how soon he spent it. Fred dined every day in Russell Square now.
But George was highly pleased with his day's business. He paid for Amelia's purchases with the splendour of a lord.


Our surprised story now finds itself for a moment among very famous events and personages, and hanging on to the skirts of history. When the eagles of Napoleon Bonaparte, the Corsican upstart, were flying from Provence, where they had perched after a brief sojourn in Elba, and from steeple to steeple until they reached the towers of Notre Dame, I wonder whether the Imperial birds had any eye for a little corner of the parish of Bloomsbury, London, which you might have thought so quiet, that even the whirring and flapping of those mighty wings would pass unobserved there?

Our surprised story now finds itself for a moment among very famous events, and hanging on to the skirts of history. When the eagles of Napoleon Bonaparte, the Corsican upstart, were flying from Provence to the towers of Notre Dame, I wonder whether the Imperial birds had any eye for a little corner of Bloomsbury, London, which you might have thought so quiet that even the whirring of those mighty wings would pass unobserved there?

Chapter 18: Who Played on the Piano Captain Dobbin Bought


"Napoleon has landed at Cannes." Such news might create a panic at Vienna, and cause Russia to drop his cards, and take Prussia into a corner, and Talleyrand and Metternich to wag their heads together, while Prince Hardenberg, and even the present Marquis of Londonderry, were puzzled; but how was this intelligence to affect a young lady in Russell Square, before whose door the watchman sang the hours when she was asleep: who, if she strolled in the square, was guarded there by the railings and the beadle: who, if she walked ever so short a distance to buy a ribbon in Southampton Row, was followed by Black Sambo with an enormous cane: who was always cared for, dressed, put to bed, and watched over by ever so many guardian angels, with and without wages? Bon Dieu, I say, is it not hard that the fateful rush of the great Imperial struggle can't take place without affecting a poor little harmless girl of eighteen, who is occupied in billing and cooing, or working muslin collars in Russell Square? You too, kindly, homely flower!--is the great roaring war tempest coming to sweep you down, here, although cowering under the shelter of Holborn? Yes; Napoleon is flinging his last stake, and poor little Emmy Sedley's happiness forms, somehow, part of it.

"Napoleon has landed at Cannes." Such news might create a panic at Vienna, and cause Russia to drop his cards, and take Prussia into a corner; but how was this news to affect a young lady in Russell Square: who, if she walked even a short distance to buy a ribbon, was followed by Sambo with an enormous cane: who was always cared for and watched over by so many guardian angels? Yet the great roaring war tempest was coming to sweep her family down.


In the first place, her father's fortune was swept down with that fatal news. All his speculations had of late gone wrong with the luckless old gentleman. Ventures had failed; merchants had broken; funds had risen when he calculated they would fall. What need to particularize? If success is rare and slow, everybody knows how quick and easy ruin is. Old Sedley had kept his own sad counsel. Everything seemed to go on as usual in the quiet, opulent house; the good-natured mistress pursuing, quite unsuspiciously, her bustling idleness, and daily easy avocations; the daughter absorbed still in one selfish, tender thought, and quite regardless of all the world besides, when that final crash came, under which the worthy family fell.

Her father's fortune was swept away with that fatal news. All his speculations had gone wrong. Ventures had failed; merchants had gone broke; funds had risen when he had calculated they would fall. If success is rare and slow, everybody knows how quick and easy ruin is.
Old Sedley had kept silent. Everything seemed to go on as usual in the quiet, opulent house; the good-natured mistress pursuing, quite unsuspiciously, her bustling idleness; the daughter absorbed still in one selfish, tender thought, and quite regardless of all the world besides, when the final crash came.


One night Mrs. Sedley was writing cards for a party; the Osbornes had given one, and she must not be behindhand; John Sedley, who had come home very late from the City, sate silent at the chimney side, while his wife was prattling to him; Emmy had gone up to her room ailing and low-spirited. "She's not happy," the mother went on. "George Osborne neglects her. I've no patience with the airs of those people. The girls have not been in the house these three weeks; and George has been twice in town without coming. Edward Dale saw him at the Opera. Edward would marry her I'm sure: and there's Captain Dobbin who, I think, would--only I hate all army men. Such a dandy as George has become. With his military airs, indeed! We must show some folks that we're as good as they. Only give Edward Dale any encouragement, and you'll see. We must have a party, Mr. S. Why don't you speak, John? Shall I say Tuesday fortnight? Why don't you answer? Good God, John, what has happened?"

One night Mrs. Sedley was writing cards for a party; the Osbornes had given one, and she must not be behindhand. John Sedley, who had come home very late from the City, sat silent while his wife was prattling to him. Emmy had gone up to her room ailing and low-spirited.
"She's not happy," said the mother. "George Osborne neglects her. I've no patience with the airs of those people. George has been twice in town without coming here. Edward Dale saw him at the Opera. Edward would marry her, I'm sure: and so would Captain Dobbin, I think - only I hate all army men. Such a dandy George has become! We must show some folks that we're as good as they. We must have a party, Mr. S. Shall I say Tuesday fortnight? Why don't you speak, John? Good God, John, what has happened?"


John Sedley sprang up out of his chair to meet his wife, who ran to him. He seized her in his arms, and said with a hasty voice, "We're ruined, Mary. We've got the world to begin over again, dear. It's best that you should know all, and at once." As he spoke, he trembled in every limb, and almost fell. He thought the news would have overpowered his wife--his wife, to whom he had never said a hard word. But it was he that was the most moved, sudden as the shock was to her. When he sank back into his seat, it was the wife that took the office of consoler. She took his trembling hand, and kissed it, and put it round her neck: she called him her John--her dear John--her old man--her kind old man; she poured out a hundred words of incoherent love and tenderness; her faithful voice and simple caresses wrought this sad heart up to an inexpressible delight and anguish, and cheered and solaced his over-burdened soul.

John Sedley sprang up out of his chair, seized her in his arms, and said, "We're ruined, Mary. It's best that you should know all, and at once." As he spoke, he trembled in every limb. He thought the news would have overpowered his wife; but it was he that was the most moved.
When he sank back into his seat, she held his trembling hand, and kissed it: she called him her dear John - her kind old man; she poured out a hundred words of incoherent love and tenderness. Her faithful voice and caresses caused this sad heart delight and anguish, and cheered his over-burdened soul.


Only once in the course of the long night as they sate together, and poor Sedley opened his pent-up soul, and told the story of his losses and embarrassments--the treason of some of his oldest friends, the manly kindness of some, from whom he never could have expected it--in a general confession--only once did the faithful wife give way to emotion.

Only once in the course of the long night as they sat together, and poor Sedley told the story of his losses - the treason of some of his oldest friends, the kindness of others - only once did the faithful wife give way to emotion.


"My God, my God, it will break Emmy's heart," she said.


The father had forgotten the poor girl. She was lying, awake and unhappy, overhead. In the midst of friends, home, and kind parents, she was alone. To how many people can any one tell all? Who will be open where there is no sympathy, or has call to speak to those who never can understand? Our gentle Amelia was thus solitary. She had no confidante, so to speak, ever since she had anything to confide. She could not tell the old mother her doubts and cares; the would-be sisters seemed every day more strange to her. And she had misgivings and fears which she dared not acknowledge to herself, though she was always secretly brooding over them.

The father had forgotten the poor girl. She was lying awake and unhappy overhead. In the midst of friends, she was alone. Our gentle Amelia had no confidante; she could not tell her old mother her doubts and cares; the would-be sisters seemed strange to her. And she had misgivings and fears which she dared not acknowledge to herself, though she was always secretly brooding over them.


Her heart tried to persist in asserting that George Osborne was worthy and faithful to her, though she knew otherwise. How many a thing had she said, and got no echo from him. How many suspicions of selfishness and indifference had she to encounter and obstinately overcome. To whom could the poor little martyr tell these daily struggles and tortures? Her hero himself only half understood her. She did not dare to own that the man she loved was her inferior; or to feel that she had given her heart away too soon. Given once, the pure bashful maiden was too modest, too tender, too trustful, too weak, too much woman to recall it. We are Turks with the affections of our women; and have made them subscribe to our doctrine too. We let their bodies go abroad liberally enough, with smiles and ringlets and pink bonnets to disguise them instead of veils and yakmaks. But their souls must be seen by only one man, and they obey not unwillingly, and consent to remain at home as our slaves--ministering to us and doing drudgery for us.

Her heart tried to persist in asserting that George Osborne was worthy and faithful, though she knew otherwise. How many suspicions of selfishness and indifference had she obstinately overcome! To whom could the poor girl tell these daily struggles? Her hero himself only half understood her. She did not dare to admit that the man she loved was her inferior; or to feel that she had given her heart away too soon. She was too modest, too trustful, too weak, too much woman to recall it.


So imprisoned and tortured was this gentle little heart, when in the month of March, Anno Domini 1815, Napoleon landed at Cannes, and Louis XVIII fled, and all Europe was in alarm, and the funds fell, and old John Sedley was ruined.

Thus imprisoned and tortured was this gentle little heart, when in March 1815 Napoleon landed in France, and Louis XVIII fled, and all Europe was in alarm, and the funds fell, and old John Sedley was ruined.


We are not going to follow the worthy old stockbroker through those last pangs and agonies of ruin through which he passed before his commercial demise befell. They declared him at the Stock Exchange; he was absent from his house of business: his bills were protested: his act of bankruptcy formal. The house and furniture of Russell Square were seized and sold up, and he and his family were thrust away, as we have seen, to hide their heads where they might.

His bankruptcy was made formal. The house and furniture of Russell Square were seized and sold up, and he and his family were thrust away, as we have seen.


John Sedley had not the heart to review the domestic establishment who have appeared now and anon in our pages and of whom he was now forced by poverty to take leave. The wages of those worthy people were discharged with that punctuality which men frequently show who only owe in great sums--they were sorry to leave good places--but they did not break their hearts at parting from their adored master and mistress. Amelia's maid was profuse in condolences, but went off quite resigned to better herself in a genteeler quarter of the town. Black Sambo, with the infatuation of his profession, determined on setting up a public-house. Honest old Mrs. Blenkinsop indeed, who had seen the birth of Jos and Amelia, and the wooing of John Sedley and his wife, was for staying by them without wages, having amassed a considerable sum in their service: and she accompanied the fallen people into their new and humble place of refuge, where she tended them and grumbled against them for a while.

The servants were discharged - they were sorry to leave good places, but they did not break their hearts. Black Sambo determined on setting up a public-house. Honest old Mrs. Blenkinsop, indeed, would have stayed without wages, having amassed a considerable sum in their service: and she accompanied the fallen people into their new and humble place of refuge, where she tended them and grumbled against them.


Of all Sedley's opponents in his debates with his creditors which now ensued, and harassed the feelings of the humiliated old gentleman so severely, that in six weeks he oldened more than he had done for fifteen years before--the most determined and obstinate seemed to be John Osborne, his old friend and neighbour--John Osborne, whom he had set up in life--who was under a hundred obligations to him--and whose son was to marry Sedley's daughter. Any one of these circumstances would account for the bitterness of Osborne's opposition.

Of all Sedley's opponents in his debates with his creditors, which now aged him more in six weeks than the fifteen years before - the most obstinate opponent was John Osborne, his old friend and neighbour. John Osborne, whom he had set up in life - who was under a hundred obligations to him - and whose son was to marry Amelia.


When one man has been under very remarkable obligations to another, with whom he subsequently quarrels, a common sense of decency, as it were, makes of the former a much severer enemy than a mere stranger would be. To account for your own hard-heartedness and ingratitude in such a case, you are bound to prove the other party's crime. It is not that you are selfish, brutal, and angry at the failure of a speculation--no, no--it is that your partner has led you into it by the basest treachery and with the most sinister motives. From a mere sense of consistency, a persecutor is bound to show that the fallen man is a villain--otherwise he, the persecutor, is a wretch himself.

But when one man has been under obligations to another, with whom he quarrels, he becomes a much severer enemy than a mere stranger would be. To account for your own ingratitude in such a case, you are bound to prove the other party's crime. It is not that you are selfish, brutal, and angry - no, no - it is that your partner has made you so by the basest treachery.


And as a general rule, which may make all creditors who are inclined to be severe pretty comfortable in their minds, no men embarrassed are altogether honest, very likely. They conceal something; they exaggerate chances of good luck; hide away the real state of affairs; say that things are flourishing when they are hopeless, keep a smiling face (a dreary smile it is) upon the verge of bankruptcy--are ready to lay hold of any pretext for delay or of any money, so as to stave off the inevitable ruin a few days longer. "Down with such dishonesty," says the creditor in triumph, and reviles his sinking enemy. "You fool, why do you catch at a straw?" calm good sense says to the man that is drowning. "You villain, why do you shrink from plunging into the irretrievable Gazette?" says prosperity to the poor devil battling in that black gulf. Who has not remarked the readiness with which the closest of friends and honestest of men suspect and accuse each other of cheating when they fall out on money matters? Everybody does it. Everybody is right, I suppose, and the world is a rogue.


Then Osborne had the intolerable sense of former benefits to goad and irritate him: these are always a cause of hostility aggravated. Finally, he had to break off the match between Sedley's daughter and his son; and as it had gone very far indeed, and as the poor girl's happiness and perhaps character were compromised, it was necessary to show the strongest reasons for the rupture, and for John Osborne to prove John Sedley to be a very bad character indeed.

Then Osborne had the intolerable sense of former benefits to irritate him. Finally, he had to break off the match between Sedley's daughter and his son; and as it had gone very far indeed, and as the poor girl's happiness and perhaps character were compromised, it was necessary to show the strongest reasons for the rupture, and for John Osborne to prove John Sedley to be a very bad character indeed.


At the meetings of creditors, then, he comported himself with a savageness and scorn towards Sedley, which almost succeeded in breaking the heart of that ruined bankrupt man. On George's intercourse with Amelia he put an instant veto--menacing the youth with maledictions if he broke his commands, and vilipending the poor innocent girl as the basest and most artful of vixens. One of the great conditions of anger and hatred is, that you must tell and believe lies against the hated object, in order, as we said, to be consistent.

At the meetings of creditors, then, he showed a savageness and scorn towards Sedley which almost broke the other man's heart. He forbade George to meet Amelia, vilifying the poor girl as the most artful of vixens.


When the great crash came--the announcement of ruin, and the departure from Russell Square, and the declaration that all was over between her and George--all over between her and love, her and happiness, her and faith in the world--a brutal letter from John Osborne told her in a few curt lines that her father's conduct had been of such a nature that all engagements between the families were at an end--when the final award came, it did not shock her so much as her parents, as her mother rather expected (for John Sedley himself was entirely prostrate in the ruins of his own affairs and shattered honour). Amelia took the news very palely and calmly. It was only the confirmation of the dark presages which had long gone before. It was the mere reading of the sentence--of the crime she had long ago been guilty--the crime of loving wrongly, too violently, against reason. She told no more of her thoughts now than she had before. She seemed scarcely more unhappy now when convinced all hope was over, than before when she felt but dared not confess that it was gone. So she changed from the large house to the small one without any mark or difference; remained in her little room for the most part; pined silently; and died away day by day. I do not mean to say that all females are so. My dear Miss Bullock, I do not think your heart would break in this way. You are a strong-minded young woman with proper principles. I do not venture to say that mine would; it has suffered, and, it must be confessed, survived. But there are some souls thus gently constituted, thus frail, and delicate, and tender.

When the great crash came, a brutal letter from John Osborne told her in a few curt lines that all engagements between the families were at an end. Amelia took the news very palely and calmly. It was only the confirmation of her previous dark fears. It was the sentence for her crime of loving too violently, against reason. She seemed scarcely more unhappy now, when convinced all hope was over, than before when she felt but dared not confess that it was gone.
So she changed from the large house to the small one without remark; remained in her little room and pined silently; and died away day by day.


Whenever old John Sedley thought of the affair between George and Amelia, or alluded to it, it was with bitterness almost as great as Mr. Osborne himself had shown. He cursed Osborne and his family as heartless, wicked, and ungrateful. No power on earth, he swore, would induce him to marry his daughter to the son of such a villain, and he ordered Emmy to banish George from her mind, and to return all the presents and letters which she had ever had from him.

Whenever old John Sedley thought of the affair between George and Amelia, it was with bitterness almost as great as Mr. Osborne's. He cursed Osborne and his family as heartless and wicked. No power on earth, he swore, would induce him to marry his daughter to the son of such a villain, and he ordered Emmy to banish George from her mind, and to return all the presents and letters which she had ever had from him.


She promised acquiescence, and tried to obey. She put up the two or three trinkets: and, as for the letters, she drew them out of the place where she kept them; and read them over--as if she did not know them by heart already: but she could not part with them. That effort was too much for her; she placed them back in her bosom again--as you have seen a woman nurse a child that is dead. Young Amelia felt that she would die or lose her senses outright, if torn away from this last consolation. How she used to blush and lighten up when those letters came! How she used to trip away with a beating heart, so that she might read unseen! If they were cold, yet how perversely this fond little soul interpreted them into warmth. If they were short or selfish, what excuses she found for the writer!

She tried to obey. But when she drew out the letters and read them over - as if she did not know them by heart already - she could not part with them. She placed them back in her bosom again - as you have seen a woman nurse a child that is dead. How she used to blush when those letters came! How she used to trip away so that she might read unseen! If they were short or selfish, what excuses she found for the writer!


It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded and brooded. She lived in her past life--every letter seemed to recall some circumstance of it. How well she remembered them all! His looks and tones, his dress, what he said and how--these relics and remembrances of dead affection were all that were left her in the world. And the business of her life, was--to watch the corpse of Love.

It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded; these relics of dead affection were all that were left her in the world.


To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then, she thought, I shall always be able to follow him. I am not praising her conduct or setting her up as a model for Miss Bullock to imitate. Miss B. knows how to regulate her feelings better than this poor little creature. Miss B. would never have committed herself as that imprudent Amelia had done; pledged her love irretrievably; confessed her heart away, and got back nothing--only a brittle promise which was snapt and worthless in a moment. A long engagement is a partnership which one party is free to keep or to break, but which involves all the capital of the other.

To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then, she thought, I shall always be able to follow him.
I am not praising her conduct or setting her up as a model to imitate. A strong-minded girl knows how to regulate her feelings better than this poor little creature, and would never pledge her heart away for nothing but a brittle promise.


Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you engage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or (a better way still), feel very little. See the consequences of being prematurely honest and confiding, and mistrust yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves married as they do in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which may make you uncomfortable, or make any promises which you cannot at any required moment command and withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be respected, and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair.

Be cautious, young ladies; be wary how you engage. Be shy of loving frankly; never tell all you feel; or (better still) feel very little. See the consequences of being too confiding, and mistrust yourselves and everybody. That is the way to get on in Vanity Fair.


If Amelia could have heard the comments regarding her which were made in the circle from which her father's ruin had just driven her, she would have seen what her own crimes were, and how entirely her character was jeopardised. Such criminal imprudence Mrs. Smith never knew of; such horrid familiarities Mrs. Brown had always condemned, and the end might be a warning to HER daughters. "Captain Osborne, of course, could not marry a bankrupt's daughter," the Misses Dobbin said. "It was quite enough to have been swindled by the father. As for that little Amelia, her folly had really passed all--"

If Amelia could have heard the comments about her which were made in the circle which they had left, she would have seen what her crimes were. "Captain Osborne, of course, could not marry a bankrupt's daughter," the Misses Dobbin said. "It was quite enough to have been swindled by the father. As for Amelia, her folly had really passed all-"


"All what?" Captain Dobbin roared out. "Haven't they been engaged ever since they were children? Wasn't it as good as a marriage? Dare any soul on earth breathe a word against the sweetest, the purest, the tenderest, the most angelical of young women?"

"All what?" Captain Dobbin roared out. "Haven't they been engaged ever since they were children? Dare any soul on earth breathe a word against the sweetest, the purest, the most angelical of young women?"


"La, William, don't be so highty-tighty with US. We're not men. We can't fight you," Miss Jane said. "We've said nothing against Miss Sedley: but that her conduct throughout was MOST IMPRUDENT, not to call it by any worse name; and that her parents are people who certainly merit their misfortunes."

"La, William, don't be so highty-tighty," Miss Jane said. "We've said nothing against Miss Sedley, except that her conduct was most imprudent, and her parents certainly deserve their misfortunes."


"Hadn't you better, now that Miss Sedley is free, propose for her yourself, William?" Miss Ann asked sarcastically. "It would be a most eligible family connection. He! he!"

"Hadn't you better, now that Miss Sedley is free, propose for her yourself, William?" Miss Ann asked sarcastically. "It would be a most eligible connection. He! he!"


"I marry her!" Dobbin said, blushing very much, and talking quick. "If you are so ready, young ladies, to chop and change, do you suppose that she is? Laugh and sneer at that angel. She can't hear it; and she's miserable and unfortunate, and deserves to be laughed at. Go on joking, Ann. You're the wit of the family, and the others like to hear it."

"I, marry her!" Dobbin said, blushing. "If you are so ready, young ladies, to chop and change, do you suppose that she is? Laugh and sneer at that angel. She can't hear it; and she's miserable and unfortunate, and deserves to be laughed at. Go on joking, Ann. You're the wit of the family."


"I must tell you again we're not in a barrack, William," Miss Ann remarked.

"We're not in a barrack, William," Miss Ann remarked.


"In a barrack, by Jove--I wish anybody in a barrack would say what you do," cried out this uproused British lion. "I should like to hear a man breathe a word against her, by Jupiter. But men don't talk in this way, Ann: it's only women, who get together and hiss, and shriek, and cackle. There, get away--don't begin to cry. I only said you were a couple of geese," Will Dobbin said, perceiving Miss Ann's pink eyes were beginning to moisten as usual. "Well, you're not geese, you're swans--anything you like, only do, do leave Miss Sedley alone."

"Nobody in a barrack would say what you do," cried out this roused British lion. "I should like to hear a man breathe a word against her, by Jupiter. But men don't talk in this way, Ann: it's only women who get together and hiss, and shriek, and cackle. There, don't cry. I only said you were a couple of geese. Well, you're not geese, you're swans - anything you like, only leave Miss Sedley alone."


Anything like William's infatuation about that silly little flirting, ogling thing was never known, the mamma and sisters agreed together in thinking: and they trembled lest, her engagement being off with Osborne, she should take up immediately her other admirer and Captain. In which forebodings these worthy young women no doubt judged according to the best of their experience; or rather (for as yet they had had no opportunities of marrying or of jilting) according to their own notions of right and wrong.

The sisters agreed that William was infatuated with the silly little thing; and they trembled lest, her engagement being off with Osborne, she should take up her other admirer, the Captain.


"It is a mercy, Mamma, that the regiment is ordered abroad," the girls said. "THIS danger, at any rate, is spared our brother."

"It is a mercy, Mamma, that the regiment is ordered abroad," the girls said. "This danger, at any rate, is spared our brother."


Such, indeed, was the fact; and so it is that the French Emperor comes in to perform a part in this domestic comedy of Vanity Fair which we are now playing, and which would never have been enacted without the intervention of this august mute personage. It was he that ruined the Bourbons and Mr. John Sedley. It was he whose arrival in his capital called up all France in arms to defend him there; and all Europe to oust him. While the French nation and army were swearing fidelity round the eagles in the Champ de Mars, four mighty European hosts were getting in motion for the great chasse a l'aigle; and one of these was a British army, of which two heroes of ours, Captain Dobbin and Captain Osborne, formed a portion.

So it is that the French Emperor comes in to perform a part in this domestic comedy of Vanity Fair. It was he that ruined Mr. John Sedley. It was he whose arrival in Paris called up all France in arms to defend him; and all Europe to oust him. While the French nation was swearing fidelity, four mighty European armies were getting in motion; and one of these was a British army, of which our two heroes, Captain Dobbin and Captain Osborne, formed a part.


The news of Napoleon's escape and landing was received by the gallant --th with a fiery delight and enthusiasm, which everybody can understand who knows that famous corps. From the colonel to the smallest drummer in the regiment, all were filled with hope and ambition and patriotic fury; and thanked the French Emperor as for a personal kindness in coming to disturb the peace of Europe. Now was the time the --th had so long panted for, to show their comrades in arms that they could fight as well as the Peninsular veterans, and that all the pluck and valour of the --th had not been killed by the West Indies and the yellow fever. Stubble and Spooney looked to get their companies without purchase. Before the end of the campaign (which she resolved to share), Mrs. Major O'Dowd hoped to write herself Mrs. Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. Our two friends (Dobbin and Osborne) were quite as much excited as the rest: and each in his way--Mr. Dobbin very quietly, Mr. Osborne very loudly and energetically--was bent upon doing his duty, and gaining his share of honour and distinction.

The news of Napoleon's escape and landing was received by their gallant regiment with a fiery delight and enthusiasm. From the colonel to the smallest drummer, all were filled with hope and ambition and patriotic fury. Now was the time they had panted for, to show their comrades that they could fight as well as the Peninsular veterans.
Stubble and Spooney looked to get promotion. Before the end of the campaign, Mrs. Major O'Dowd hoped to write herself Mrs. Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. Our two friends were just as excited as the rest: Mr. Dobbin very quietly, Mr. Osborne very loudly and energetically - each bent upon doing his duty, and gaining his share of honour.


The agitation thrilling through the country and army in consequence of this news was so great, that private matters were little heeded: and hence probably George Osborne, just gazetted to his company, busy with preparations for the march, which must come inevitably, and panting for further promotion--was not so much affected by other incidents which would have interested him at a more quiet period. He was not, it must be confessed, very much cast down by good old Mr. Sedley's catastrophe. He tried his new uniform, which became him very handsomely, on the day when the first meeting of the creditors of the unfortunate gentleman took place. His father told him of the wicked, rascally, shameful conduct of the bankrupt, reminded him of what he had said about Amelia, and that their connection was broken off for ever; and gave him that evening a good sum of money to pay for the new clothes and epaulets in which he looked so well. Money was always useful to this free-handed young fellow, and he took it without many words. The bills were up in the Sedley house, where he had passed so many, many happy hours. He could see them as he walked from home that night (to the Old Slaughters', where he put up when in town) shining white in the moon. That comfortable home was shut, then, upon Amelia and her parents: where had they taken refuge? The thought of their ruin affected him not a little. He was very melancholy that night in the coffee-room at the Slaughters'; and drank a good deal, as his comrades remarked there.

At this thrilling time, private matters were little heeded. Hence George Osborne, busy with preparations for the coming march, was not so much affected by other incidents as he might otherwise have been. He was not, it must be confessed, very much cast down by old Mr. Sedley's catastrophe. He tried his new uniform, which became him very handsomely, on the day when the first meeting of the creditors took place. His father told him of the wicked, shameful conduct of the bankrupt, reminded him that his connection with Amelia was broken off for ever; and gave him a good sum of money to pay for the new clothes in which he looked so well.
The bills of sale went up in the Sedley house, where he had passed so many happy hours. He could see them as he walked away from home that evening, shining white in the moon. He was very melancholy that night in the coffee-room; and drank a good deal, as his comrades remarked.


Dobbin came in presently, cautioned him about the drink, which he only took, he said, because he was deuced low; but when his friend began to put to him clumsy inquiries, and asked him for news in a significant manner, Osborne declined entering into conversation with him, avowing, however, that he was devilish disturbed and unhappy.

Dobbin came in presently, cautioned him about the drink, and began to make clumsy inquiries. Osborne declined answering, saying that he was devilish disturbed and unhappy.


Three days afterwards, Dobbin found Osborne in his room at the barracks--his head on the table, a number of papers about, the young Captain evidently in a state of great despondency. "She--she's sent me back some things I gave her--some damned trinkets. Look here!" There was a little packet directed in the well-known hand to Captain George Osborne, and some things lying about--a ring, a silver knife he had bought, as a boy, for her at a fair; a gold chain, and a locket with hair in it. "It's all over," said he, with a groan of sickening remorse. "Look, Will, you may read it if you like."

Three days afterwards, Dobbin found Osborne in his room at the barracks - his head on the table, a number of papers about, and the young Captain greatly despondent.
"She sent me back some trinkets I gave her. Look here!" There was a little packet with a letter. "It's all over," said he, with a groan. "You may read it if you like."


There was a little letter of a few lines, to which he pointed, which said:


My papa has ordered me to return to you these presents, which you made in happier days to me; and I am to write to you for the last time. I think, I know you feel as much as I do the blow which has come upon us. It is I that absolve you from an engagement which is impossible in our present misery. I am sure you had no share in it, or in the cruel suspicions of Mr. Osborne, which are the hardest of all our griefs to bear. Farewell. Farewell. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this and other calamities, and to bless you always. A.

My papa has ordered me to return to you these presents, which you gave me in happier days; and I am to write to you for the last time. I know you feel as I do the blow which has come upon us. I absolve you from an engagement which is impossible in our present misery. I am sure you had no share in the cruel suspicions of Mr. Osborne, which are the hardest of our griefs to bear. Farewell. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this and other calamities, and to bless you always. A.


I shall often play upon the piano--your piano. It was like you to send it.

I shall often play upon the piano - your piano. It was like you to send it.


Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The sight of women and children in pain always used to melt him. The idea of Amelia broken-hearted and lonely tore that good-natured soul with anguish. And he broke out into an emotion, which anybody who likes may consider unmanly. He swore that Amelia was an angel, to which Osborne said aye with all his heart. He, too, had been reviewing the history of their lives--and had seen her from her childhood to her present age, so sweet, so innocent, so charmingly simple, and artlessly fond and tender.

Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The sight of women and children in pain always used to melt him. The idea of Amelia broken-hearted and lonely tore that good-natured soul with anguish. He swore that Amelia was an angel, and Osborne agreed with all his heart.
Osborne, too, had been thinking of Amelia from her childhood, so sweet, so innocent, so charmingly simple, and artlessly fond.


What a pang it was to lose all that: to have had it and not prized it! A thousand homely scenes and recollections crowded on him--in which he always saw her good and beautiful. And for himself, he blushed with remorse and shame, as the remembrance of his own selfishness and indifference contrasted with that perfect purity. For a while, glory, war, everything was forgotten, and the pair of friends talked about her only.

What a pang it was to lose all that: to have had it and not prized it! He blushed with remorse, as the memory of his selfishness and indifference contrasted with her perfect purity. For a while, glory, war, everything was forgotten, and the pair of friends talked about her only.


"Where are they?" Osborne asked, after a long talk, and a long pause--and, in truth, with no little shame at thinking that he had taken no steps to follow her. "Where are they? There's no address to the note."

"Where are they?" Osborne asked - in truth, ashamed that he had taken no steps to follow her. "There's no address to the note."


Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano; but had written a note to Mrs. Sedley, and asked permission to come and see her--and he had seen her, and Amelia too, yesterday, before he came down to Chatham; and, what is more, he had brought that farewell letter and packet which had so moved them.

Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano, but had written a note to Mrs. Sedley, and had seen her, and Amelia too, yesterday.


The good-natured fellow had found Mrs. Sedley only too willing to receive him, and greatly agitated by the arrival of the piano, which, as she conjectured, MUST have come from George, and was a signal of amity on his part. Captain Dobbin did not correct this error of the worthy lady, but listened to all her story of complaints and misfortunes with great sympathy--condoled with her losses and privations, and agreed in reprehending the cruel conduct of Mr. Osborne towards his first benefactor. When she had eased her overflowing bosom somewhat, and poured forth many of her sorrows, he had the courage to ask actually to see Amelia, who was above in her room as usual, and whom her mother led trembling downstairs.

He had found Mrs. Sedley only too willing to receive him, and greatly agitated by the arrival of the piano, which, she guessed, MUST have come from George. Captain Dobbin did not correct her error, but listened to all her misfortunes with great sympathy. Then he asked to see Amelia, who was in her room, and whom her mother led trembling downstairs.


Her appearance was so ghastly, and her look of despair so pathetic, that honest William Dobbin was frightened as he beheld it; and read the most fatal forebodings in that pale fixed face. After sitting in his company a minute or two, she put the packet into his hand, and said, "Take this to Captain Osborne, if you please, and--and I hope he's quite well--and it was very kind of you to come and see us--and we like our new house very much. And I--I think I'll go upstairs, Mamma, for I'm not very strong." And with this, and a curtsey and a smile, the poor child went her way. The mother, as she led her up, cast back looks of anguish towards Dobbin. The good fellow wanted no such appeal. He loved her himself too fondly for that. Inexpressible grief, and pity, and terror pursued him, and he came away as if he was a criminal after seeing her.

Her appearance was so ghastly, and her look of despair so pathetic, that William Dobbin was frightened; he read the most fatal forebodings in that pale fixed face. After sitting in his company a minute, she put the packet of trinkets into his hand, and said, "Take this to Captain Osborne, if you please, and - and I hope he's quite well. It was very kind of you to come and see us. We like our new house very much. And I - I think I'll go upstairs, Mamma, for I'm not very strong."
And with a curtsey and a smile, the poor child left. Inexpressible grief, pity and terror pursued Dobbin when he came away.


When Osborne heard that his friend had found her, he made hot and anxious inquiries regarding the poor child. How was she? How did she look? What did she say? His comrade took his hand, and looked him in the face.

Osborne made anxious inquiries about her. How was she? What did she say? His comrade took his hand, and looked him in the face.


"George, she's dying," William Dobbin said--and could speak no more.

"George, she's dying," William Dobbin said - and could speak no more.


There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed all the duties of the little house where the Sedley family had found refuge: and this girl had in vain, on many previous days, striven to give Amelia aid or consolation. Emmy was much too sad to answer, or even to be aware of the attempts the other was making in her favour.

There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed all the duties of the little house where the Sedley family had found refuge: and this girl had often tried to give Amelia aid or consolation. Emmy was much too sad to be aware of her attempts.


Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne, this servant-maid came into Amelia's room, where she sate as usual, brooding silently over her letters--her little treasures. The girl, smiling, and looking arch and happy, made many trials to attract poor Emmy's attention, who, however, took no heed of her.

Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne, this servant-maid came smiling into Amelia's room, where she sat brooding over her letters - her little treasures.


"I'm coming," Emmy said, not looking round.


"There's a message," the maid went on. "There's something--somebody--sure, here's a new letter for you--don't be reading them old ones any more." And she gave her a letter, which Emmy took, and read.

"There's a message," the maid went on. "There's something - somebody - sure, here's a new letter for you - don't be reading them old ones any more." And she gave her a letter, which Emmy took, and read.


"I must see you," the letter said. "Dearest Emmy--dearest love--dearest wife, come to me."

"I must see you," the letter said. "Dearest Emmy - dearest love - dearest wife, come to me."


George and her mother were outside, waiting until she had read the letter.

George and her mother were outside, waiting for her.


When Miss Sharp had performed the heroical act mentioned in the last chapter, and had seen the Dixonary, flying over the pavement of the little garden, fall at length at the feet of the astonished Miss Jemima, the young lady's countenance, which had before worn an almost livid look of hatred, assumed a smile that perhaps was scarcely more agreeable, and she sank back in the carriage in an easy frame of mind, saying--"So much for the Dixonary; and, thank God, I'm out of Chiswick."

When Miss Sharp performed the heroical act mentioned in the last chapter, and saw the Dictionary flying over the garden to fall at Miss Jemima's feet, the young lady's face, which had worn an almost livid look of hatred, assumed a smile that perhaps was scarcely more agreeable. She sank back in the carriage, saying, "So much for the Dictionary; and thank God I'm out of Chiswick."

Chapter 2: In Which Miss Sharp and Miss Sedley Prepare to Open the Campaign


Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the act of defiance as Miss Jemima had been; for, consider, it was but one minute that she had left school, and the impressions of six years are not got over in that space of time. Nay, with some persons those awes and terrors of youth last for ever and ever. I know, for instance, an old gentleman of sixty-eight, who said to me one morning at breakfast, with a very agitated countenance, "I dreamed last night that I was flogged by Dr. Raine." Fancy had carried him back five-and-fifty years in the course of that evening. Dr. Raine and his rod were just as awful to him in his heart, then, at sixty-eight, as they had been at thirteen. If the Doctor, with a large birch, had appeared bodily to him, even at the age of threescore and eight, and had said in awful voice, "Boy, take down your pant--"? Well, well, Miss Sedley was exceedingly alarmed at this act of insubordination.

Miss Sedley was almost as flurried at the defiant act as Miss Jemima had been; for, consider, it was only one minute since she had left school, and the impressions of six years are not got over in that period, or even in a lifetime. She was exceedingly alarmed.


"How could you do so, Rebecca?" at last she said, after a pause.

"How could you do that, Rebecca?" she said.


"Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and order me back to the black-hole?" said Rebecca, laughing.

"Why, do you think Miss Pinkerton will come out and order me back to the black hole?" said Rebecca, laughing.


"I hate the whole house," continued Miss Sharp in a fury. "I hope I may never set eyes on it again. I wish it were in the bottom of the Thames, I do; and if Miss Pinkerton were there, I wouldn't pick her out, that I wouldn't. O how I should like to see her floating in the water yonder, turban and all, with her train streaming after her, and her nose like the beak of a wherry."

"I hate the house," continued Miss Sharp in a fury. "I hope I never set eyes on it again. I wish it were at the bottom of the Thames; and if Miss Pinkerton were there, I wouldn't pick her out. O, how I should like to see her floating in the water, turban and all."


"Why, will the black footman tell tales?" cried Miss Rebecca, laughing. "He may go back and tell Miss Pinkerton that I hate her with all my soul; and I wish he would; and I wish I had a means of proving it, too. For two years I have only had insults and outrage from her. I have been treated worse than any servant in the kitchen. I have never had a friend or a kind word, except from you. I have been made to tend the little girls in the lower schoolroom, and to talk French to the Misses, until I grew sick of my mother tongue. But that talking French to Miss Pinkerton was capital fun, wasn't it? She doesn't know a word of French, and was too proud to confess it. I believe it was that which made her part with me; and so thank Heaven for French. Vive la France! Vive l'Empereur! Vive Bonaparte!"

"Why, will the black footman tell tales?" cried Miss Rebecca. "He may go back and tell Miss Pinkerton that I hate her with all my soul. For two years I have only had insults from her. I have been treated worse than any servant in the kitchen. I have never had a friend or a kind word, except from you. I have been made to tend the little girls, and to talk French until I grew sick of my mother tongue. But Miss Pinkerton doesn't know a word of French, and was too proud to confess it. I believe it was that which made her part with me; and so thank Heaven for French. Vive la France! Vive Bonaparte!"


"O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!" cried Miss Sedley; for this was the greatest blasphemy Rebecca had as yet uttered; and in those days, in England, to say, "Long live Bonaparte!" was as much as to say, "Long live Lucifer!" "How can you--how dare you have such wicked, revengeful thoughts?"

"O Rebecca, Rebecca, for shame!" cried Miss Sedley; for this was the greatest blasphemy Rebecca had yet uttered. In those days, to say, Long live Bonaparte was as much as to say, Long live Lucifer! "How can you have such wicked, revengeful thoughts?"


"Revenge may be wicked, but it's natural," answered Miss Rebecca. "I'm no angel." And, to say the truth, she certainly was not.


For it may be remarked in the course of this little conversation (which took place as the coach rolled along lazily by the river side) that though Miss Rebecca Sharp has twice had occasion to thank Heaven, it has been, in the first place, for ridding her of some person whom she hated, and secondly, for enabling her to bring her enemies to some sort of perplexity or confusion; neither of which are very amiable motives for religious gratitude, or such as would be put forward by persons of a kind and placable disposition. Miss Rebecca was not, then, in the least kind or placable. All the world used her ill, said this young misanthropist, and we may be pretty certain that persons whom all the world treats ill, deserve entirely the treatment they get. The world is a looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you; laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly kind companion; and so let all young persons take their choice. This is certain, that if the world neglected Miss Sharp, she never was known to have done a good action in behalf of anybody; nor can it be expected that twenty-four young ladies should all be as amiable as the heroine of this work, Miss Sedley (whom we have selected for the very reason that she was the best-natured of all, otherwise what on earth was to have prevented us from putting up Miss Swartz, or Miss Crump, or Miss Hopkins, as heroine in her place!) it could not be expected that every one should be of the humble and gentle temper of Miss Amelia Sedley; should take every opportunity to vanquish Rebecca's hard-heartedness and ill-humour; and, by a thousand kind words and offices, overcome, for once at least, her hostility to her kind.

For it may be remarked during this little conversation (which took place as the coach rolled along lazily by the riverside) that though Miss Rebecca Sharp has twice thanked Heaven, it has been, in the first place, for ridding her of somebody she hated, and secondly, for enabling her to perplex her enemies; neither of which are very kind or amiable motives. Miss Rebecca was not kind or amiable. All the world used her ill, said this young misanthropist, and we may be pretty certain that people whom all the world treats ill, deserve the treatment they get. The world is a looking-glass: frown at it, and it will frown back; laugh, and it is a jolly companion. If the world neglected Miss Sharp, she was never known to have done a good deed for anybody, Not everyone can have the humble and gentle temper of Miss Amelia Sedley.


Miss Sharp's father was an artist, and in that quality had given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a clever man; a pleasant companion; a careless student; with a great propensity for running into debt, and a partiality for the tavern. When he was drunk, he used to beat his wife and daughter; and the next morning, with a headache, he would rail at the world for its neglect of his genius, and abuse, with a good deal of cleverness, and sometimes with perfect reason, the fools, his brother painters. As it was with the utmost difficulty that he could keep himself, and as he owed money for a mile round Soho, where he lived, he thought to better his circumstances by marrying a young woman of the French nation, who was by profession an opera-girl. The humble calling of her female parent Miss Sharp never alluded to, but used to state subsequently that the Entrechats were a noble family of Gascony, and took great pride in her descent from them. And curious it is that as she advanced in life this young lady's ancestors increased in rank and splendour.

Miss Sharp's father was an artist who had given drawing lessons at Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a clever man; a pleasant companion; a careless student; constantly running into debt, and partial to the tavern. When he was drunk, he used to beat his wife and daughter; and the next morning, with a headache, he would rail at the world for its neglect of his genius, and abuse his brother painters. As he owed money for a mile round Soho, he had thought to better his circumstances by marrying a young French opera-girl. Miss Sharp never alluded to her mother's humble calling, but stated that the Entrechats were a noble family of Gascony. And curiously, as she advanced in life, this young lady's ancestors increased in rank and splendour.


Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, and her daughter spoke French with purity and a Parisian accent. It was in those days rather a rare accomplishment, and led to her engagement with the orthodox Miss Pinkerton. For her mother being dead, her father, finding himself not likely to recover, after his third attack of delirium tremens, wrote a manly and pathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to her protection, and so descended to the grave, after two bailiffs had quarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was seventeen when she came to Chiswick, and was bound over as an articled pupil; her duties being to talk French, as we have seen; and her privileges to live cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to gather scraps of knowledge from the professors who attended the school.

Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, and her daughter spoke French with purity and a Parisian accent: a rare accomplishment, which led to her engagement with Miss Pinkerton. For her mother being dead, her father, after his third attack of delirium tremens, wrote shortly before he died a manly and pathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending his child to her protection.
Rebecca was seventeen when she came to Chiswick as an articled pupil. Her duties were to talk French, and her privileges to live cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to gather scraps of knowledge from the professors who taught at the school.


She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and with eyes habitually cast down: when they looked up they were very large, odd, and attractive; so attractive that the Reverend Mr. Crisp, fresh from Oxford, and curate to the Vicar of Chiswick, the Reverend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in love with Miss Sharp; being shot dead by a glance of her eyes which was fired all the way across Chiswick Church from the school-pew to the reading-desk. This infatuated young man used sometimes to take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to whom he had been presented by his mamma, and actually proposed something like marriage in an intercepted note, which the one-eyed apple-woman was charged to deliver. Mrs. Crisp was summoned from Buxton, and abruptly carried off her darling boy; but the idea, even, of such an eagle in the Chiswick dovecot caused a great flutter in the breast of Miss Pinkerton, who would have sent away Miss Sharp but that she was bound to her under a forfeit, and who never could thoroughly believe the young lady's protestations that she had never exchanged a single word with Mr. Crisp, except under her own eyes on the two occasions when she had met him at tea.

She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and with eyes habitually cast down. When they looked up they were very large, odd, and attractive; so attractive that the curate Mr. Crisp, fresh from Oxford, fell in love with Miss Sharp, being shot dead by a glance of her eyes fired across Chiswick Church. This infatuated young man used sometimes to take tea with Miss Pinkerton, and actually proposed marriage to Miss Sharp in an intercepted note. His mother was summoned, and carried off her darling boy; but the very idea of such an eagle in the Chiswick dovecot alarmed Miss Pinkerton. She could not entirely believe the young lady's protestations that she had never exchanged a single word with Mr. Crisp, except twice at Miss Pinkerton's own tea-table.


By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she talked to, and turned away from her father's door; many a tradesman had she coaxed and wheedled into good-humour, and into the granting of one meal more. She sate commonly with her father, who was very proud of her wit, and heard the talk of many of his wild companions--often but ill-suited for a girl to hear. But she never had been a girl, she said; she had been a woman since she was eight years old. Oh, why did Miss Pinkerton let such a dangerous bird into her cage?

By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the school, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a debt-collector had she talked into turning away from her father's door; many a tradesman had she coaxed into good-humour. She sat often with her father, and heard the talk of his wild companions - ill-suited for a girl to hear. But she never had been a girl, she said; she had been a woman since she was eight years old.
Oh, why did Miss Pinkerton let such a dangerous bird into her cage?


The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the meekest creature in the world, so admirably, on the occasions when her father brought her to Chiswick, used Rebecca to perform the part of the ingenue; and only a year before the arrangement by which Rebecca had been admitted into her house, and when Rebecca was sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton majestically, and with a little speech, made her a present of a doll--which was, by the way, the confiscated property of Miss Swindle, discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school-hours. How the father and daughter laughed as they trudged home together after the evening party (it was on the occasion of the speeches, when all the professors were invited) and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen the caricature of herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to make out of her doll. Becky used to go through dialogues with it; it formed the delight of Newman Street, Gerrard Street, and the Artists' quarter: and the young painters, when they came to take their gin-and-water with their lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial senior, used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home: she was as well known to them, poor soul! as Mr. Lawrence or President West. Once Rebecca had the honour to pass a few days at Chiswick; after which she brought back Jemima, and erected another doll as Miss Jemmy: for though that honest creature had made and given her jelly and cake enough for three children, and a seven-shilling piece at parting, the girl's sense of ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude, and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her sister.

The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be a meek creature, so admirably had she acted innocence when her father brought her to visit Chiswick. When Rebecca was sixteen, Miss Pinkerton majestically, with a little speech, made her a present of a doll (confiscated from a pupil). How father and daughter laughed as they trudged home together that evening, and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen the caricature of herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to make out of her doll. Becky used to go through dialogues with it, delighting the artists' quarter: the young painters, when they came to take their gin-and-water with their lazy, clever senior, used to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home.
Once, after spending a few days at Chiswick, Rebecca set up another doll as Miss Jemima. For though that honest creature had given her jelly and cake, and seven shillings at parting, the girl's sense of ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude, and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her sister.


The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the Mall as to her home. The rigid formality of the place suffocated her: the prayers and the meals, the lessons and the walks, which were arranged with a conventual regularity, oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and she looked back to the freedom and the beggary of the old studio in Soho with so much regret, that everybody, herself included, fancied she was consumed with grief for her father. She had a little room in the garret, where the maids heard her walking and sobbing at night; but it was with rage, and not with grief. She had not been much of a dissembler, until now her loneliness taught her to feign. She had never mingled in the society of women: her father, reprobate as he was, was a man of talent; his conversation was a thousand times more agreeable to her than the talk of such of her own sex as she now encountered. The pompous vanity of the old schoolmistress, the foolish good-humour of her sister, the silly chat and scandal of the elder girls, and the frigid correctness of the governesses equally annoyed her; and she had no soft maternal heart, this unlucky girl, otherwise the prattle and talk of the younger children, with whose care she was chiefly intrusted, might have soothed and interested her; but she lived among them two years, and not one was sorry that she went away. The gentle tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to whom she could attach herself in the least; and who could help attaching herself to Amelia?

Her father died, and she was brought to the Mall as her home. The rigid formality of the place suffocated her. The prayers and the meals, the lessons and the walks, as regular as in a convent, oppressed her almost beyond endurance. She looked back to the freedom and the beggary of the old studio in Soho with so much regret that everybody, herself included, fancied she was consumed with grief for her father. She had a little room in the garret, where the maids heard her walking and sobbing at night; but it was with rage, not grief.
She had never mingled in the society of women. The pompous vanity of the old schoolmistress, the foolish good-humour of her sister, the silly chat of the elder girls, and the frigid correctness of the governesses equally annoyed her. She had no soft maternal heart, or the prattle of the younger children, with whose care she was chiefly entrusted, might have interested her; but she lived among them two years, and not one was sorry that she went away. The gentle tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to whom she attached herself in the least; and who could help attaching herself to Amelia?


The happiness--the superior advantages of the young women round about her, gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy. "What airs that girl gives herself, because she is an Earl's grand-daughter," she said of one. "How they cringe and bow to that Creole, because of her hundred thousand pounds! I am a thousand times cleverer and more charming than that creature, for all her wealth. I am as well bred as the Earl's grand-daughter, for all her fine pedigree; and yet every one passes me by here. And yet, when I was at my father's, did not the men give up their gayest balls and parties in order to pass the evening with me?" She determined at any rate to get free from the prison in which she found herself, and now began to act for herself, and for the first time to make connected plans for the future.

The advantages of the young women around her gave Rebecca pangs of envy.
"What airs that girl gives herself, because she is an Earl's grand-daughter," she thought. "How they bow to that Creole, because of her hundred thousand pounds! I am a thousand times cleverer and more charming than her. Everyone passes me by here. And yet, when I was at my father's, did not the men give up their gayest parties in order to spend the evening with me?" She determined to get free from her prison, and began to make plans for the future.


She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the place offered her; and as she was already a musician and a good linguist, she speedily went through the little course of study which was considered necessary for ladies in those days. Her music she practised incessantly, and one day, when the girls were out, and she had remained at home, she was overheard to play a piece so well that Minerva thought, wisely, she could spare herself the expense of a master for the juniors, and intimated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct them in music for the future.

She took advantage, therefore, of the learning the place offered her; and as she was already a musician and a good linguist, she speedily went through the little course of study which was considered necessary for ladies in those days. Her music she practised incessantly, and one day was overheard to play a piece so well that Miss Pinkerton thought she could spare herself the expense of a music-master for the juniors, and told Miss Sharp that she was to instruct them in music.


The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the astonishment of the majestic mistress of the school. "I am here to speak French with the children," Rebecca said abruptly, "not to teach them music, and save money for you. Give me money, and I will teach them."

The girl refused. "I am here to speak French with the children," Rebecca said abruptly, "not to teach them music, and save you money. Pay me, and I will teach them."


Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, disliked her from that day. "For five-and-thirty years," she said, and with great justice, "I never have seen the individual who has dared in my own house to question my authority. I have nourished a viper in my bosom."

"For five-and-thirty years," said Miss Pinkerton, "nobody in this house has dared to question my authority. I have nourished a viper in my bosom."


"A viper--a fiddlestick," said Miss Sharp to the old lady, almost fainting with astonishment. "You took me because I was useful. There is no question of gratitude between us. I hate this place, and want to leave it. I will do nothing here but what I am obliged to do."

"A viper - a fiddlestick," said Miss Sharp. "You took me because I was useful. There is no question of gratitude between us. I hate this place, and want to leave it. I will do nothing here but what I am obliged to do."


It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware she was speaking to Miss Pinkerton? Rebecca laughed in her face, with a horrid sarcastic demoniacal laughter, that almost sent the schoolmistress into fits. "Give me a sum of money," said the girl, "and get rid of me--or, if you like better, get me a good place as governess in a nobleman's family--you can do so if you please." And in their further disputes she always returned to this point, "Get me a situation--we hate each other, and I am ready to go."

The old lady asked her if she was aware she was speaking to Miss Pinkerton. Rebecca laughed in her face, with a horrid sarcastic laughter.
"Give me a sum of money," said the girl, "and get rid of me - or, if you like, get me a good place as governess in a nobleman's family." And in their further disputes she always repeated, "Get me a situation - we hate each other, and I am ready to go."


Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose and a turban, and was as tall as a grenadier, and had been up to this time an irresistible princess, had no will or strength like that of her little apprentice, and in vain did battle against her, and tried to overawe her. Attempting once to scold her in public, Rebecca hit upon the before-mentioned plan of answering her in French, which quite routed the old woman. In order to maintain authority in her school, it became necessary to remove this rebel, this monster, this serpent, this firebrand; and hearing about this time that Sir Pitt Crawley's family was in want of a governess, she actually recommended Miss Sharp for the situation, firebrand and serpent as she was. "I cannot, certainly," she said, "find fault with Miss Sharp's conduct, except to myself; and must allow that her talents and accomplishments are of a high order. As far as the head goes, at least, she does credit to the educational system pursued at my establishment."

Worthy Miss Pinkerton, despite her intimidating appearance, had no will or strength like that of her little apprentice, and in vain did battle against her. When she scolded her once in public, Rebecca answered her in French, which quite routed the old woman. In order to maintain authority in her school, it became necessary to remove this rebel, this monster, this serpent; and hearing that Sir Pitt Crawley's family needed a governess, she recommended Miss Sharp for the situation, serpent as she was.
"I cannot, certainly," she said, "find fault with Miss Sharp's conduct, except to myself. Her talents and accomplishments are of a high order, and in that respect, at least, she does credit to the school."


And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation to her conscience, and the indentures were cancelled, and the apprentice was free. The battle here described in a few lines, of course, lasted for some months. And as Miss Sedley, being now in her seventeenth year, was about to leave school, and had a friendship for Miss Sharp ("'tis the only point in Amelia's behaviour," said Minerva, "which has not been satisfactory to her mistress"), Miss Sharp was invited by her friend to pass a week with her at home, before she entered upon her duties as governess in a private family.

And so the schoolmistress reconciled her conscience, and the apprentice was free. And as Miss Sedley, now sixteen, was about to leave school, and had a friendship for Miss Sharp, she invited Rebecca to pass a week with her at home, before starting her duties as governess.


Thus the world began for these two young ladies. For Amelia it was quite a new, fresh, brilliant world, with all the bloom upon it. It was not quite a new one for Rebecca--(indeed, if the truth must be told with respect to the Crisp affair, the tart-woman hinted to somebody, who took an affidavit of the fact to somebody else, that there was a great deal more than was made public regarding Mr. Crisp and Miss Sharp, and that his letter was in answer to another letter). But who can tell you the real truth of the matter? At all events, if Rebecca was not beginning the world, she was beginning it over again.

Thus the world began for these two young ladies. For Amelia it was a new, fresh, brilliant world. It was not quite a new one for Rebecca - but even if she was not beginning the world, she was beginning it over again.


By the time the young ladies reached Kensington turnpike, Amelia had not forgotten her companions, but had dried her tears, and had blushed very much and been delighted at a young officer of the Life Guards, who spied her as he was riding by, and said, "A dem fine gal, egad!" and before the carriage arrived in Russell Square, a great deal of conversation had taken place about the Drawing-room, and whether or not young ladies wore powder as well as hoops when presented, and whether she was to have that honour: to the Lord Mayor's ball she knew she was to go. And when at length home was reached, Miss Amelia Sedley skipped out on Sambo's arm, as happy and as handsome a girl as any in the whole big city of London. Both he and coachman agreed on this point, and so did her father and mother, and so did every one of the servants in the house, as they stood bobbing, and curtseying, and smiling, in the hall to welcome their young mistress.

By the time the young ladies reached Kensington turnpike, Amelia had dried her tears, and blushed very much when a young soldier who was riding by said, "A dem fine gal, egad!" Before the carriage arrived in Russell Square, a great deal of conversation had taken place about the Drawing-room, and whether young ladies wore powder as well as hoops when presented at court.
When home was reached, Miss Amelia Sedley skipped out on Sambo's arm, as happy and as handsome a girl as any in London. So all the servants thought, as they stood bobbing and smiling in the hall to welcome their young mistress.


You may be sure that she showed Rebecca over every room of the house, and everything in every one of her drawers; and her books, and her piano, and her dresses, and all her necklaces, brooches, laces, and gimcracks. She insisted upon Rebecca accepting the white cornelian and the turquoise rings, and a sweet sprigged muslin, which was too small for her now, though it would fit her friend to a nicety; and she determined in her heart to ask her mother's permission to present her white Cashmere shawl to her friend. Could she not spare it? and had not her brother Joseph just brought her two from India?

Amelia showed Rebecca every room of the house, and all her books, her piano, her dresses, necklaces, brooches, and gimcracks. She insisted upon Rebecca accepting a white cornelian necklace and a turquoise ring, and a sweet sprigged muslin dress, which was too small for her now, though it would fit her friend perfectly; and she decided to present a white Cashmere shawl to her friend - for her brother Joseph had just brought her two from India.


When Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls which Joseph Sedley had brought home to his sister, she said, with perfect truth, "that it must be delightful to have a brother," and easily got the pity of the tender-hearted Amelia for being alone in the world, an orphan without friends or kindred.

When Rebecca saw the two magnificent Cashmere shawls, she said, with perfect truth, "that it must be delightful to have a brother," and easily won the pity of the tender-hearted Amelia for being alone in the world, without family or friends.


"Not alone," said Amelia; "you know, Rebecca, I shall always be your friend, and love you as a sister--indeed I will."

"You know, Rebecca, I shall always be your friend," said Amelia, "and love you as a sister."


"Ah, but to have parents, as you have--kind, rich, affectionate parents, who give you everything you ask for; and their love, which is more precious than all! My poor papa could give me nothing, and I had but two frocks in all the world! And then, to have a brother, a dear brother! Oh, how you must love him!"

"Ah, but to have kind, rich, affectionate parents, who give you everything you ask for; and their love, which is more precious than all! My poor papa could give me nothing, and I had only two frocks in all the world! And then, to have a dear brother! How you must love him!"


"What! don't you love him? you, who say you love everybody?"

"What! don't you love him?" said Rebecca, "you, who say you love everybody?"


"Only Joseph doesn't seem to care much whether I love him or not. He gave me two fingers to shake when he arrived after ten years' absence! He is very kind and good, but he scarcely ever speaks to me; I think he loves his pipe a great deal better than his"--but here Amelia checked herself, for why should she speak ill of her brother? "He was very kind to me as a child," she added; "I was but five years old when he went away."

- only Joseph doesn't seem to care much whether I love him or not. He gave me two fingers to shake when he arrived after ten years' absence! He is very good, but he scarcely ever speaks to me; I think he loves his pipe a great deal better than-" But here Amelia checked herself. "He was very kind to me as a child," she added. "I was only five when he went away."


"Isn't he very rich?" said Rebecca. "They say all Indian nabobs are enormously rich."


"And is your sister-in-law a nice pretty woman?"

"And is your sister-in-law a nice, pretty woman?"


"La! Joseph is not married," said Amelia, laughing again.


Perhaps she had mentioned the fact already to Rebecca, but that young lady did not appear to have remembered it; indeed, vowed and protested that she expected to see a number of Amelia's nephews and nieces. She was quite disappointed that Mr. Sedley was not married; she was sure Amelia had said he was, and she doted so on little children.

Rebecca protested that she had expected to see Amelia's nephews and nieces, and was quite disappointed that Mr. Sedley was not married; she was sure Amelia had said he was, and she doted so on little children.


"I think you must have had enough of them at Chiswick," said Amelia, rather wondering at the sudden tenderness on her friend's part; and indeed in later days Miss Sharp would never have committed herself so far as to advance opinions, the untruth of which would have been so easily detected. But we must remember that she is but nineteen as yet, unused to the art of deceiving, poor innocent creature! and making her own experience in her own person. The meaning of the above series of queries, as translated in the heart of this ingenious young woman, was simply this: "If Mr. Joseph Sedley is rich and unmarried, why should I not marry him? I have only a fortnight, to be sure, but there is no harm in trying." And she determined within herself to make this laudable attempt. She redoubled her caresses to Amelia; she kissed the white cornelian necklace as she put it on; and vowed she would never, never part with it. When the dinner-bell rang she went downstairs with her arm round her friend's waist, as is the habit of young ladies. She was so agitated at the drawing-room door, that she could hardly find courage to enter. "Feel my heart, how it beats, dear!" said she to her friend.

"I think you must have had enough of them at Chiswick," said Amelia, rather wondering at this sudden tenderness on her friend's part. Indeed later on Miss Sharp would never have advanced an opinion which could so easily be seen to be untrue. But we must remember that she is but nineteen as yet, unused to the art of deceiving, poor innocent creature!
The meaning of her queries was simply this: "If Mr. Joseph Sedley is rich and unmarried, why should I not marry him? I have only a fortnight, to be sure, but there is no harm in trying." And she decided to make this laudable attempt.
She caressed Amelia; she kissed the cornelian necklace as she put it on, and vowed she would never part with it. When the dinner-bell rang she went downstairs with her arm round her friend's waist. She was so agitated at the drawing-room door, that she could hardly find courage to enter.
"Feel my heart, how it beats, dear!" said she to her friend.


"No, it doesn't," said Amelia. "Come in, don't be frightened. Papa won't do you any harm."

"No, it doesn't," said Amelia. "Come in, don't be frightened. Papa won't hurt you."


We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley's biography with that lightness and delicacy which the world demands--the moral world, that has, perhaps, no particular objection to vice, but an insuperable repugnance to hearing vice called by its proper name. There are things we do and know perfectly well in Vanity Fair, though we never speak of them: as the Ahrimanians worship the devil, but don't mention him: and a polite public will no more bear to read an authentic description of vice than a truly refined English or American female will permit the word breeches to be pronounced in her chaste hearing. And yet, madam, both are walking the world before our faces every day, without much shocking us. If you were to blush every time they went by, what complexions you would have! It is only when their naughty names are called out that your modesty has any occasion to show alarm or sense of outrage, and it has been the wish of the present writer, all through this story, deferentially to submit to the fashion at present prevailing, and only to hint at the existence of wickedness in a light, easy, and agreeable manner, so that nobody's fine feelings may be offended. I defy any one to say that our Becky, who has certainly some vices, has not been presented to the public in a perfectly genteel and inoffensive manner. In describing this Siren, singing and smiling, coaxing and cajoling, the author, with modest pride, asks his readers all round, has he once forgotten the laws of politeness, and showed the monster's hideous tail above water? No! Those who like may peep down under waves that are pretty transparent and see it writhing and twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy, flapping amongst bones, or curling round corpses; but above the waterline, I ask, has not everything been proper, agreeable, and decorous, and has any the most squeamish immoralist in Vanity Fair a right to cry fie? When, however, the Siren disappears and dives below, down among the dead men, the water of course grows turbid over her, and it is labour lost to look into it ever so curiously. They look pretty enough when they sit upon a rock, twanging their harps and combing their hair, and sing, and beckon to you to come and hold the looking-glass; but when they sink into their native element, depend on it, those mermaids are about no good, and we had best not examine the fiendish marine cannibals, revelling and feasting on their wretched pickled victims. And so, when Becky is out of the way, be sure that she is not particularly well employed, and that the less that is said about her doings is in fact the better.

We must pass over a part of Mrs. Rebecca Crawley's biography with that delicacy which the world demands - the moral world, that has no particular objection to vice, but hates hearing it named. There are things we know perfectly well in Vanity Fair, though we never speak of them: and a polite public will no more read an authentic description of vice than a truly refined English female will permit the word breeches to be said in her hearing. And yet, madam, both are walking the world before our faces every day. If you were to blush every time they went by, what complexions you would have! It is only when their naughty names are called out that you show any outrage.
I have submitted to this fashion all through this story, only hinting at the existence of wickedness in a light, easy, and agreeable manner, so that nobody's fine feelings may be offended. I defy anyone to say that our Becky has not been presented in a perfectly genteel and inoffensive way. In describing this Siren, singing and smiling, coaxing and cajoling, I modestly ask - have I once forgotten the laws of politeness, and showed the monster's hideous tail above water? No! Those who wish may peep down under the waves and see it writhing and twirling, diabolically hideous and slimy; but above the waterline, everything has been decorous.
When, however, the Sirens disappear and dive below, down among the dead men, the water grows cloudy, and it is pointless to peer into it. They look pretty enough when they sit on a rock, twanging their harps and combing their hair; but when they sink into the sea, depend on it, those mermaids are up to no good, and we had best not examine them feasting on their wretched pickled victims. And so, when Becky is out of the way, be sure that the less that is said about her doings the better.


If we were to give a full account of her proceedings during a couple of years that followed after the Curzon Street catastrophe, there might be some reason for people to say this book was improper. The actions of very vain, heartless, pleasure-seeking people are very often improper (as are many of yours, my friend with the grave face and spotless reputation--but that is merely by the way); and what are those of a woman without faith--or love--or character? And I am inclined to think that there was a period in Mrs Becky's life when she was seized, not by remorse, but by a kind of despair, and absolutely neglected her person and did not even care for her reputation.

If we were to give a full account of her life after the Curzon Street catastrophe, there might be some reason to say this book was improper. The actions of very vain, heartless people are often improper; and what are those of a woman without faith - or love - or character? And I am inclined to think that there was a period in Mrs. Becky's life when she was seized, not by remorse, but by a kind of despair, neglected her person and did not even care for her reputation.


This abattement and degradation did not take place all at once; it was brought about by degrees, after her calamity, and after many struggles to keep up--as a man who goes overboard hangs on to a spar whilst any hope is left, and then flings it away and goes down, when he finds that struggling is in vain.

This degradation did not take place all at once. It was brought about by degrees, and after many struggles to keep up - as a man who goes overboard hangs on to a spar whilst any hope is left.


She lingered about London whilst her husband was making preparations for his departure to his seat of government, and it is believed made more than one attempt to see her brother-in-law, Sir Pitt Crawley, and to work upon his feelings, which she had almost enlisted in her favour. As Sir Pitt and Mr. Wenham were walking down to the House of Commons, the latter spied Mrs. Rawdon in a black veil, and lurking near the palace of the legislature. She sneaked away when her eyes met those of Wenham, and indeed never succeeded in her designs upon the Baronet.

She lingered about London whilst her husband was making preparations for his departure to Coventry Island, and it is believed she tried to see her brother-in-law, Sir Pitt Crawley, and to work upon his feelings.


Probably Lady Jane interposed. I have heard that she quite astonished her husband by the spirit which she exhibited in this quarrel, and her determination to disown Mrs. Becky. Of her own movement, she invited Rawdon to come and stop in Gaunt Street until his departure for Coventry Island, knowing that with him for a guard Mrs. Becky would not try to force her door; and she looked curiously at the superscriptions of all the letters which arrived for Sir Pitt, lest he and his sister-in-law should be corresponding. Not but that Rebecca could have written had she a mind, but she did not try to see or to write to Pitt at his own house, and after one or two attempts consented to his demand that the correspondence regarding her conjugal differences should be carried on by lawyers only.

Probably Lady Jane interposed. I have heard that she quite astonished her husband by her spirit and her determination to disown Mrs. Becky. She invited Rawdon to stay in Gaunt Street until his departure for Coventry Island, knowing that with him for a guard Mrs. Becky would not try to come; and she looked at all the letters which arrived for Sir Pitt, lest he and his sister-in-law should be corresponding. So after one or two attempts Rebecca consented to Pitt's demand that any correspondence should be carried on by their lawyers.


The fact was that Pitt's mind had been poisoned against her. A short time after Lord Steyne's accident Wenham had been with the Baronet and given him such a biography of Mrs. Becky as had astonished the member for Queen's Crawley. He knew everything regarding her: who her father was; in what year her mother danced at the opera; what had been her previous history; and what her conduct during her married life--as I have no doubt that the greater part of the story was false and dictated by interested malevolence, it shall not be repeated here. But Becky was left with a sad sad reputation in the esteem of a country gentleman and relative who had been once rather partial to her.

In fact, Pitt's mind had been poisoned against her. Wenham had told him such a biography of Mrs. Becky as had astonished him: who her father was; in what year her mother danced at the opera; her previous history, and her conduct during her married life. Becky was left with a sad sad reputation in his esteem.


The revenues of the Governor of Coventry Island are not large. A part of them were set aside by his Excellency for the payment of certain outstanding debts and liabilities, the charges incident on his high situation required considerable expense; finally, it was found that he could not spare to his wife more than three hundred pounds a year, which he proposed to pay to her on an undertaking that she would never trouble him. Otherwise, scandal, separation, Doctors' Commons would ensue. But it was Mr. Wenham's business, Lord Steyne's business, Rawdon's, everybody's--to get her out of the country, and hush up a most disagreeable affair.

The income of the Governor of Coventry Island is not large. Some was set aside by Rawdon for the payment of debts, and he could not spare his wife more than three hundred pounds a year, which he proposed to pay to her on condition that she would never trouble him. It was in everyone's interest to get her out of the country, and hush up a most disagreeable affair.


She was probably so much occupied in arranging these affairs of business with her husband's lawyers that she forgot to take any step whatever about her son, the little Rawdon, and did not even once propose to go and see him. That young gentleman was consigned to the entire guardianship of his aunt and uncle, the former of whom had always possessed a great share of the child's affection. His mamma wrote him a neat letter from Boulogne, when she quitted England, in which she requested him to mind his book, and said she was going to take a Continental tour, during which she would have the pleasure of writing to him again. But she never did for a year afterwards, and not, indeed, until Sir Pitt's only boy, always sickly, died of hooping-cough and measles--then Rawdon's mamma wrote the most affectionate composition to her darling son, who was made heir of Queen's Crawley by this accident, and drawn more closely than ever to the kind lady, whose tender heart had already adopted him. Rawdon Crawley, then grown a tall, fine lad, blushed when he got the letter. "Oh, Aunt Jane, you are my mother!" he said; "and not--and not that one." But he wrote back a kind and respectful letter to Mrs. Rebecca, then living at a boarding-house at Florence. But we are advancing matters.

She was probably so much occupied in arranging this business with her husband's lawyers that she forgot to take any step whatever about her son, little Rawdon, and did not once propose to go and see him. That young gentleman was consigned to the guardianship of his aunt and uncle; he had always been very fond of his aunt Jane. His mamma wrote him a neat letter from Boulogne, in which she told him to mind his books, and said she was going to take a Continental tour, and would write to him again.
But she never did for a year, and not, indeed, until Sir Pitt's only boy, always sickly, died of whooping-cough and measles. Then Rawdon's mamma wrote the most affectionate letter to her darling son, who was made heir of Queen's Crawley by this accident.
Rawdon Crawley, then grown a tall, fine lad, blushed when he got the letter. "Oh, Aunt Jane, you are my mother!" he said; "and not - not that one." However, he wrote back a kind and respectful letter to Mrs. Rebecca, then living at a boarding-house in Florence. But we are advancing matters.


Our darling Becky's first flight was not very far. She perched upon the French coast at Boulogne, that refuge of so much exiled English innocence, and there lived in rather a genteel, widowed manner, with a femme de chambre and a couple of rooms, at an hotel. She dined at the table d'hote, where people thought her very pleasant, and where she entertained her neighbours by stories of her brother, Sir Pitt, and her great London acquaintance, talking that easy, fashionable slip-slop which has so much effect upon certain folks of small breeding. She passed with many of them for a person of importance; she gave little tea-parties in her private room and shared in the innocent amusements of the place in sea-bathing, and in jaunts in open carriages, in strolls on the sands, and in visits to the play. Mrs. Burjoice, the printer's lady, who was boarding with her family at the hotel for the summer, and to whom her Burjoice came of a Saturday and Sunday, voted her charming, until that little rogue of a Burjoice began to pay her too much attention. But there was nothing in the story, only that Becky was always affable, easy, and good-natured--and with men especially.

Our darling Becky's first flight was not very far. She perched upon the French coast at Boulogne, and there lived in rather a genteel, widowed manner, with a maid and a couple of rooms at an hotel. She entertained her neighbours with stories of her brother, Sir Pitt, and her great London acquaintance, talking that easy, fashionable slip-slop which so impresses certain folks of small breeding. She passed with them for a person of importance; she gave little tea-parties, and shared in the innocent amusements of sea-bathing, jaunts in open carriages, strolls on the sands, and visits to the play. She was always affable, easy, and good-natured - with men especially.


Numbers of people were going abroad as usual at the end of the season, and Becky had plenty of opportunities of finding out by the behaviour of her acquaintances of the great London world the opinion of "society" as regarded her conduct. One day it was Lady Partlet and her daughters whom Becky confronted as she was walking modestly on Boulogne pier, the cliffs of Albion shining in the distance across the deep blue sea. Lady Partlet marshalled all her daughters round her with a sweep of her parasol and retreated from the pier, darting savage glances at poor little Becky who stood alone there.

From people coming abroad at the end of the London season, Becky learnt the opinion of London society about her conduct. One day she met Lady Partlet and her daughters as she was walking on Boulogne pier. Lady Partlet marshalled all her daughters round her with a sweep of her parasol and retreated, darting savage glances at poor little Becky.


On another day the packet came in. It had been blowing fresh, and it always suited Becky's humour to see the droll woe-begone faces of the people as they emerged from the boat. Lady Slingstone happened to be on board this day. Her ladyship had been exceedingly ill in her carriage, and was greatly exhausted and scarcely fit to walk up the plank from the ship to the pier. But all her energies rallied the instant she saw Becky smiling roguishly under a pink bonnet, and giving her a glance of scorn such as would have shrivelled up most women, she walked into the Custom House quite unsupported. Becky only laughed: but I don't think she liked it. She felt she was alone, quite alone, and the far-off shining cliffs of England were impassable to her.

On another day the packet ship came in. It had been blowing fresh, and it always amused Becky to see the woe-begone faces of the people emerging from the boat. Lady Slingstone happened to be on board this day. She had been exceedingly ill, and could scarcely walk up the plank from the ship to the pier. But all her energies rallied the instant she saw Becky smiling roguishly under a pink bonnet. Giving her a glance of shrivelling scorn, she walked into the Custom House quite unsupported. Becky laughed: but I don't think she liked it. She felt she was quite alone, and the far-off shining cliffs of England were impassable to her.