Chapter: Contains a Vulgar Incident

The Muse, whoever she be, who presides over this Comic History must now
descend from the genteel heights in which she has been soaring and have
the goodness to drop down upon the lowly roof of John Sedley at
Brompton, and describe what events are taking place there. Here, too,
in this humble tenement, live care, and distrust, and dismay.  Mrs.
Clapp in the kitchen is grumbling in secret to her husband about the
rent, and urging the good fellow to rebel against his old friend and
patron and his present lodger.  Mrs. Sedley has ceased to visit her
landlady in the lower regions now, and indeed is in a position to
patronize Mrs. Clapp no longer.  How can one be condescending to a lady
to whom one owes a matter of forty pounds, and who is perpetually
throwing out hints for the money? The Irish maidservant has not altered
in the least in her kind and respectful behaviour; but Mrs. Sedley
fancies that she is growing insolent and ungrateful, and, as the guilty
thief who fears each bush an officer, sees threatening innuendoes and
hints of capture in all the girl's speeches and answers.  Miss Clapp,
grown quite a young woman now, is declared by the soured old lady to be
an unbearable and impudent little minx.  Why Amelia can be so fond of
her, or have her in her room so much, or walk out with her so
constantly, Mrs. Sedley cannot conceive. The bitterness of poverty has
poisoned the life of the once cheerful and kindly woman.  She is
thankless for Amelia's constant and gentle bearing towards her; carps
at her for her efforts at kindness or service; rails at her for her
silly pride in her child and her neglect of her parents.  Georgy's
house is not a very lively one since Uncle Jos's annuity has been
withdrawn and the little family are almost upon famine diet.

Amelia thinks, and thinks, and racks her brain, to find some means of
increasing the small pittance upon which the household is starving.
Can she give lessons in anything? paint card-racks? do fine work? She
finds that women are working hard, and better than she can, for
twopence a day.  She buys a couple of begilt Bristol boards at the
Fancy Stationer's and paints her very best upon them--a shepherd with
a red waistcoat on one, and a pink face smiling in the midst of a
pencil landscape--a shepherdess on the other, crossing a little bridge,
with a little dog, nicely shaded.  The man of the Fancy Repository and
Brompton Emporium of Fine Arts (of whom she bought the screens, vainly
hoping that he would repurchase them when ornamented by her hand) can
hardly hide the sneer with which he examines these feeble works of art.
He looks askance at the lady who waits in the shop, and ties up the
cards again in their envelope of whitey-brown paper, and hands them to
the poor widow and Miss Clapp, who had never seen such beautiful things
in her life, and had been quite confident that the man must give at
least two guineas for the screens.  They try at other shops in the
interior of London, with faint sickening hopes.  "Don't want 'em," says
one.  "Be off," says another fiercely.  Three-and-sixpence has been
spent in vain--the screens retire to Miss Clapp's bedroom, who
persists in thinking them lovely.

She writes out a little card in her neatest hand, and after long
thought and labour of composition, in which the public is informed that
"A Lady who has some time at her disposal, wishes to undertake the
education of some little girls, whom she would instruct in English, in
French, in Geography, in History, and in Music--address A.  O., at Mr.
Brown's"; and she confides the card to the gentleman of the Fine Art
Repository, who consents to allow it to lie upon the counter, where it
grows dingy and fly-blown.  Amelia passes the door wistfully many a
time, in hopes that Mr. Brown will have some news to give her, but he
never beckons her in.  When she goes to make little purchases, there is
no news for her.  Poor simple lady, tender and weak--how are you to
battle with the struggling violent world?

She grows daily more care-worn and sad, fixing upon her child alarmed
eyes, whereof the little boy cannot interpret the expression.  She
starts up of a night and peeps into his room stealthily, to see that he
is sleeping and not stolen away.  She sleeps but little now.  A
constant thought and terror is haunting her.  How she weeps and prays
in the long silent nights--how she tries to hide from herself the
thought which will return to her, that she ought to part with the boy,
that she is the only barrier between him and prosperity.  She can't,
she can't. Not now, at least.  Some other day.  Oh! it is too hard to
think of and to bear.

A thought comes over her which makes her blush and turn from
herself--her parents might keep the annuity--the curate would marry her
and give a home to her and the boy.  But George's picture and dearest
memory are there to rebuke her.  Shame and love say no to the
sacrifice.  She shrinks from it as from something unholy, and such
thoughts never found a resting-place in that pure and gentle bosom.

The combat, which we describe in a sentence or two, lasted for many
weeks in poor Amelia's heart, during which she had no confidante;
indeed, she could never have one, as she would not allow to herself the
possibility of yielding, though she was giving way daily before the
enemy with whom she had to battle.  One truth after another was
marshalling itself silently against her and keeping its ground. Poverty
and misery for all, want and degradation for her parents, injustice to
the boy--one by one the outworks of the little citadel were taken, in
which the poor soul passionately guarded her only love and treasure.

At the beginning of the struggle, she had written off a letter of
tender supplication to her brother at Calcutta, imploring him not to
withdraw the support which he had granted to their parents and painting
in terms of artless pathos their lonely and hapless condition.  She did
not know the truth of the matter.  The payment of Jos's annuity was
still regular, but it was a money-lender in the City who was receiving
it:  old Sedley had sold it for a sum of money wherewith to prosecute
his bootless schemes.  Emmy was calculating eagerly the time that would
elapse before the letter would arrive and be answered.  She had written
down the date in her pocket-book of the day when she dispatched it.  To
her son's guardian, the good Major at Madras, she had not communicated
any of her griefs and perplexities.  She had not written to him since
she wrote to congratulate him on his approaching marriage.  She thought
with sickening despondency, that that friend--the only one, the one who
had felt such a regard for her--was fallen away.

One day, when things had come to a very bad pass--when the creditors
were pressing, the mother in hysteric grief, the father in more than
usual gloom, the inmates of the family avoiding each other, each
secretly oppressed with his private unhappiness and notion of
wrong--the father and daughter happened to be left alone together, and
Amelia thought to comfort her father by telling him what she had done.
She had written to Joseph--an answer must come in three or four months.
He was always generous, though careless.  He could not refuse, when he
knew how straitened were the circumstances of his parents.

Then the poor old gentleman revealed the whole truth to her--that his
son was still paying the annuity, which his own imprudence had flung
away.  He had not dared to tell it sooner.  He thought Amelia's ghastly
and terrified look, when, with a trembling, miserable voice he made the
confession, conveyed reproaches to him for his concealment.  "Ah!" said
he with quivering lips and turning away, "you despise your old father
now!"

"Oh, papa! it is not that," Amelia cried out, falling on his neck and
kissing him many times.  "You are always good and kind.  You did it for
the best.  It is not for the money--it is--my God! my God! have mercy
upon me, and give me strength to bear this trial"; and she kissed him
again wildly and went away.

Still the father did not know what that explanation meant, and the
burst of anguish with which the poor girl left him.  It was that she
was conquered.  The sentence was passed.  The child must go from
her--to others--to forget her.  Her heart and her treasure--her joy,
hope, love, worship--her God, almost!  She must give him up, and
then--and then she would go to George, and they would watch over the
child and wait for him until he came to them in Heaven.

She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did, and went out to
walk in the lanes by which George used to come back from school, and
where she was in the habit of going on his return to meet the boy.  It
was May, a half-holiday.  The leaves were all coming out, the weather
was brilliant; the boy came running to her flushed with health,
singing, his bundle of school-books hanging by a thong. There he was.
Both her arms were round him.  No, it was impossible. They could not be
going to part.  "What is the matter, Mother?" said he; "you look very
pale."

"Nothing, my child," she said and stooped down and kissed him.

That night Amelia made the boy read the story of Samuel to her, and how
Hannah, his mother, having weaned him, brought him to Eli the High
Priest to minister before the Lord.  And he read the song of gratitude
which Hannah sang, and which says, who it is who maketh poor and maketh
rich, and bringeth low and exalteth--how the poor shall be raised up
out of the dust, and how, in his own might, no man shall be strong.
Then he read how Samuel's mother made him a little coat and brought it
to him from year to year when she came up to offer the yearly
sacrifice.  And then, in her sweet simple way, George's mother made
commentaries to the boy upon this affecting story.  How Hannah, though
she loved her son so much, yet gave him up because of her vow.  And how
she must always have thought of him as she sat at home, far away,
making the little coat; and Samuel, she was sure, never forgot his
mother; and how happy she must have been as the time came (and the
years pass away very quick) when she should see her boy and how good
and wise he had grown.  This little sermon she spoke with a gentle
solemn voice, and dry eyes, until she came to the account of their
meeting--then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tender heart
overflowed, and taking the boy to her breast, she rocked him in her
arms and wept silently over him in a sainted agony of tears.

Her mind being made up, the widow began to take such measures as seemed
right to her for advancing the end which she proposed.  One day, Miss
Osborne, in Russell Square (Amelia had not written the name or number
of the house for ten years--her youth, her early story came back to her
as she wrote the superscription) one day Miss Osborne got a letter from
Amelia which made her blush very much and look towards her father,
sitting glooming in his place at the other end of the table.

In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which had induced her to
change her mind respecting her boy. Her father had met with fresh
misfortunes which had entirely ruined him.  Her own pittance was so
small that it would barely enable her to support her parents and would
not suffice to give George the advantages which were his due. Great as
her sufferings would be at parting with him she would, by God's help,
endure them for the boy's sake.  She knew that those to whom he was
going would do all in their power to make him happy. She described his
disposition, such as she fancied it--quick and impatient of control or
harshness, easily to be moved by love and kindness.  In a postscript,
she stipulated that she should have a written agreement, that she
should see the child as often as she wished--she could not part with
him under any other terms.

"What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" old Osborne said, when with
a tremulous eager voice Miss Osborne read him the letter. "Reg'lar
starved out, hey? Ha, ha!  I knew she would." He tried to keep his
dignity and to read his paper as usual--but he could not follow it.  He
chuckled and swore to himself behind the sheet.

At last he flung it down and, scowling at his daughter, as his wont
was, went out of the room into his study adjoining, from whence he
presently returned with a key.  He flung it to Miss Osborne.

"Get the room over mine--his room that was--ready," he said.  "Yes,
sir," his daughter replied in a tremble. It was George's room.  It had
not been opened for more than ten years.  Some of his clothes, papers,
handkerchiefs, whips and caps, fishing-rods and sporting gear, were
still there.  An Army list of 1814, with his name written on the cover;
a little dictionary he was wont to use in writing; and the Bible his
mother had given him, were on the mantelpiece, with a pair of spurs and
a dried inkstand covered with the dust of ten years.  Ah! since that
ink was wet, what days and people had passed away!  The writing-book,
still on the table, was blotted with his hand.

Miss Osborne was much affected when she first entered this room with
the servants under her.  She sank quite pale on the little bed. "This
is blessed news, m'am--indeed, m'am," the housekeeper said; "and the
good old times is returning, m'am.  The dear little feller, to be sure,
m'am; how happy he will be!  But some folks in May Fair, m'am, will owe
him a grudge, m'am"; and she clicked back the bolt which held the
window-sash and let the air into the chamber.

"You had better send that woman some money," Mr. Osborne said, before
he went out.  "She shan't want for nothing.  Send her a hundred pound."

"And I'll go and see her to-morrow?" Miss Osborne asked.

"That's your look out.  She don't come in here, mind. No, by ------,
not for all the money in London.  But she mustn't want now.  So look
out, and get things right." With which brief speeches Mr. Osborne took
leave of his daughter and went on his accustomed way into the City.

"Here, Papa, is some money," Amelia said that night, kissing the old
man, her father, and putting a bill for a hundred pounds into his
hands.  "And--and, Mamma, don't be harsh with Georgy.  He--he is not
going to stop with us long." She could say nothing more, and walked
away silently to her room.  Let us close it upon her prayers and her
sorrow.  I think we had best speak little about so much love and grief.

Miss Osborne came the next day, according to the promise contained in
her note, and saw Amelia.  The meeting between them was friendly. A
look and a few words from Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that, with
regard to this woman at least, there need be no fear lest she should
take the first place in her son's affection. She was cold, sensible,
not unkind.  The mother had not been so well pleased, perhaps, had the
rival been better looking, younger, more affectionate, warmer-hearted.
Miss Osborne, on the other hand, thought of old times and memories and
could not but be touched with the poor mother's pitiful situation.  She
was conquered, and laying down her arms, as it were, she humbly
submitted.  That day they arranged together the preliminaries of the
treaty of capitulation.

George was kept from school the next day, and saw his aunt.  Amelia
left them alone together and went to her room.  She was trying the
separation--as that poor gentle Lady Jane Grey felt the edge of the axe
that was to come down and sever her slender life.  Days were passed in
parleys, visits, preparations.  The widow broke the matter to Georgy
with great caution; she looked to see him very much affected by the
intelligence.  He was rather elated than otherwise, and the poor woman
turned sadly away.  He bragged about the news that day to the boys at
school; told them how he was going to live with his grandpapa, his
father's father, not the one who comes here sometimes; and that he
would be very rich, and have a carriage, and a pony, and go to a much
finer school, and when he was rich he would buy Leader's pencil-case
and pay the tart-woman.  The boy was the image of his father, as his
fond mother thought.

Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dear Amelia's sake, to go
through the story of George's last days at home.

At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little humble packets
containing tokens of love and remembrance were ready and disposed in
the hall long since--George was in his new suit, for which the tailor
had come previously to measure him.  He had sprung up with the sun and
put on the new clothes, his mother hearing him from the room close by,
in which she had been lying, in speechless grief and watching.  Days
before she had been making preparations for the end, purchasing little
stores for the boy's use, marking his books and linen, talking with him
and preparing him for the change--fondly fancying that he needed
preparation.

So that he had change, what cared he? He was longing for it.  By a
thousand eager declarations as to what he would do, when he went to
live with his grandfather, he had shown the poor widow how little the
idea of parting had cast him down.  "He would come and see his mamma
often on the pony," he said.  "He would come and fetch her in the
carriage; they would drive in the park, and she should have everything
she wanted." The poor mother was fain to content herself with these
selfish demonstrations of attachment, and tried to convince herself how
sincerely her son loved her.  He must love her. All children were so:
a little anxious for novelty, and--no, not selfish, but self-willed.
Her child must have his enjoyments and ambition in the world.  She
herself, by her own selfishness and imprudent love for him had denied
him his just rights and pleasures hitherto.

I know few things more affecting than that timorous debasement and
self-humiliation of a woman.  How she owns that it is she and not the
man who is guilty; how she takes all the faults on her side; how she
courts in a manner punishment for the wrongs which she has not
committed and persists in shielding the real culprit!  It is those who
injure women who get the most kindness from them--they are born timid
and tyrants and maltreat those who are humblest before them.

So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent misery for her son's
departure, and had passed many and many a long solitary hour in making
preparations for the end. George stood by his mother, watching her
arrangements without the least concern.  Tears had fallen into his
boxes; passages had been scored in his favourite books; old toys,
relics, treasures had been hoarded away for him, and packed with
strange neatness and care--and of all these things the boy took no
note.  The child goes away smiling as the mother breaks her heart.  By
heavens it is pitiful, the bootless love of women for children in
Vanity Fair.

A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia's life is
consummated.  No angel has intervened.  The child is sacrificed and
offered up to fate, and the widow is quite alone.

The boy comes to see her often, to be sure.  He rides on a pony with a
coachman behind him, to the delight of his old grandfather, Sedley, who
walks proudly down the lane by his side.  She sees him, but he is not
her boy any more.  Why, he rides to see the boys at the little school,
too, and to show off before them his new wealth and splendour.  In two
days he has adopted a slightly imperious air and patronizing manner.
He was born to command, his mother thinks, as his father was before him.

It is fine weather now.  Of evenings on the days when he does not come,
she takes a long walk into London--yes, as far as Russell Square, and
rests on the stone by the railing of the garden opposite Mr. Osborne's
house. It is so pleasant and cool.  She can look up and see the
drawing-room windows illuminated, and, at about nine o'clock, the
chamber in the upper story where Georgy sleeps.  She knows--he has told
her.  She prays there as the light goes out, prays with an humble
heart, and walks home shrinking and silent. She is very tired when she
comes home.  Perhaps she will sleep the better for that long weary
walk, and she may dream about Georgy.

One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell Square, at some
distance from Mr. Osborne's house (she could see it from a distance
though) when all the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and George and his
aunt came out to go to church; a little sweep asked for charity, and
the footman, who carried the books, tried to drive him away; but Georgy
stopped and gave him money.  May God's blessing be on the boy!  Emmy
ran round the square and, coming up to the sweep, gave him her mite
too. All the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and she followed them until
she came to the Foundling Church, into which she went.  There she sat
in a place whence she could see the head of the boy under his father's
tombstone. Many hundred fresh children's voices rose up there and sang
hymns to the Father Beneficent, and little George's soul thrilled with
delight at the burst of glorious psalmody.  His mother could not see
him for awhile, through the mist that dimmed her eyes.

 Mrs. Sedley is growing more and more bitter and unpleasant because of the discomfort and constant embarrassment of being poor. She is no longer friends with the landlady and now has suspicions about the one maid they have. Amelia tries to be nice to her, but to no avail. Amelia tries to figure out if there is something she can do to make money. But honestly, have we seen anything to indicate that she has any skills besides looking pretty and crying? So she does about as well as expected. At the same time, the less money they have, and the worse everything becomes, the more Amelia gives in to the idea of giving George Jr. up to the Osbornes. The last straw is when she writes Jos a letter to ask him to start sending the annual payment again. To make Mr. Sedley feel better, she tells him she's written to Jos. Mr. Sedley finally admits the truth: Jos has been sending the money all along, but Mr. Sedley has been using it to pay the debts he's amassed from all his get-rich-quick schemes. Amelia really loses it at this news. That's it. She's done resisting. She writes a letter to Miss Osborne, telling her why she has changed her mind. She says she is willing to let George Jr. go as long as they promise to let her see him as often as she wants. She tells George Jr. that he's going to go live with his other grandfather. He is totally psyched, not at all sad, and brags to his classmates about how he's going to be rich. This isn't surprising, since all kids his age are selfish, but it crushes Amelia. Finally the day comes when she packs all his things and Miss Osborne comes to pick him up. Time passes. George Jr. comes to visit Amelia often, but he is already changing and picking up a bossy, haughty tone. Amelia often sneaks over to watch the Osbornes' house. On Sundays she goes to their church and sits in the back to see if she can see George Jr. One day, while spying like this, she sees George Jr. kindly give money to a street beggar. So here's hoping that George 2.0 isn't as horrendous as his dad.

