Vanity Fair
by William Makepeace Thackeray
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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On her first appearance Lord Steyne stepped forward,
taking her hand, and greeting her with great courtesy,
and presenting her to Lady Steyne, and their ladyships,
her daughters. Their ladyships made three stately curtsies,
and the elder lady to be sure gave her hand to the
newcomer, but it was as cold and lifeless as marble.

Becky took it, however, with grateful humility, and
performing a reverence which would have done credit
to the best dancer-master, put herself at Lady Steyne's
feet, as it were, by saying that his Lordship had been
her father's earliest friend and patron, and that she,
Becky, had learned to honour and respect the Steyne
family from the days of her childhood. The fact is that Lord
Steyne had once purchased a couple of pictures of the
late Sharp, and the affectionate orphan could never
forget her gratitude for that favour.

The Lady Bareacres then came under Becky's cognizance
--to whom the Colonel's lady made also a most respectful
obeisance: it was returned with severe dignity by the
exalted person in question.

"I had the pleasure of making your Ladyship's
acquaintance at Brussels, ten years ago," Becky said in
the most winning manner. "I had the good fortune to
meet Lady Bareacres at the Duchess of Richmond's ball,
the night before the Battle of Waterloo. And I recollect
your Ladyship, and my Lady Blanche, your daughter,
sitting in the carriage in the porte-cochere at the Inn,
waiting for horses. I hope your Ladyship's diamonds are
safe."

Everybody's eyes looked into their neighbour's. The
famous diamonds had undergone a famous seizure, it
appears, about which Becky, of course, knew nothing.
Rawdon Crawley retreated with Lord Southdown into a
window, where the latter was heard to laugh immoderately,
as Rawdon told him the story of Lady Bareacres
wanting horses and "knuckling down by Jove," to Mrs.
Crawley. "I think I needn't be afraid of THAT woman,"
Becky thought. Indeed, Lady Bareacres exchanged
terrified and angry looks with her daughter and retreated
to a table, where she began to look at pictures with
great energy.

When the Potentate from the Danube made his appearance,
the conversation was carried on in the French language,
and the Lady Bareacres and the younger ladies
found, to their farther mortification, that Mrs. Crawley
was much better acquainted with that tongue, and spoke
it with a much better accent than they. Becky had met
other Hungarian magnates with the army in France in
1816-17. She asked after her friends with great interest
The foreign personages thought that she was a lady of
great distinction, and the Prince and the Princess asked
severally of Lord Steyne and the Marchioness, whom
they conducted to dinner, who was that petite dame who
spoke so well?

Finally, the procession being formed in the order
described by the American diplomatist, they marched into
the apartment where the banquet was served, and which,
as I have promised the reader he shall enjoy it, he shall
have the liberty of ordering himself so as to suit his
fancy.

But it was when the ladies were alone that Becky
knew the tug of war would come. And then indeed the
little woman found herself in such a situation as made
her acknowledge the correctness of Lord Steyne's
caution to her to beware of the society of ladies above her
own sphere. As they say, the persons who hate Irishmen
most are Irishmen; so, assuredly, the greatest tyrants
over women are women. When poor little Becky,
alone with the ladies, went up to the fire-place whither
the great ladies had repaired, the great ladies marched
away and took possession of a table of drawings. When
Becky followed them to the table of drawings, they
dropped off one by one to the fire again. She tried to
speak to one of the children (of whom she was
commonly fond in public places), but Master George Gaunt
was called away by his mamma; and the stranger was
treated with such cruelty finally, that even Lady Steyne
herself pitied her and went up to speak to the friendless
little woman.

"Lord Steyne," said her Ladyship, as her wan cheeks
glowed with a blush, "says you sing and play very
beautifully, Mrs. Crawley--I wish you would do me the
kindness to sing to me."

"I will do anything that may give pleasure to my Lord
Steyne or to you," said Rebecca, sincerely grateful, and
seating herself at the piano, began to sing.

She sang religious songs of Mozart, which had been
early favourites of Lady Steyne, and with such sweetness
and tenderness that the lady, lingering round the piano,
sat down by its side and listened until the tears rolled
down her eyes. It is true that the opposition ladies at
the other end of the room kept up a loud and ceaseless
buzzing and talking, but the Lady Steyne did not hear
those rumours. She was a child again--and had
wandered back through a forty years' wilderness to her
convent garden. The chapel organ had pealed the same tones,
the organist, the sister whom she loved best of the
community, had taught them to her in those early happy
days. She was a girl once more, and the brief period of
her happiness bloomed out again for an hour--she
started when the jarring doors were flung open, and with
a loud laugh from Lord Steyne, the men of the party
entered full of gaiety.

He saw at a glance what had happened in his absence,
and was grateful to his wife for once. He went
and spoke to her, and called her by her Christian name,
so as again to bring blushes to her pale face--"My wife
says you have been singing like an angel," he said to
Becky. Now there are angels of two kinds, and both sorts,
it is said, are charming in their way.

Whatever the previous portion of the evening had
been, the rest of that night was a great triumph for
Becky. She sang her very best, and it was so good that
every one of the men came and crowded round the
piano. The women, her enemies, were left quite alone.
And Mr. Paul Jefferson Jones thought he had made a
conquest of Lady Gaunt by going up to her Ladyship
and praising her delightful friend's first-rate singing.

CHAPTER L

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, papal 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.

CHAPTER LI

In Which a Charade Is Acted Which May or May
Not Puzzle the Reader

After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private
and select parties, the claims of that estimable woman
as regards fashion were settled, and some of the very
greatest and tallest doors in the metropolis were
speedily opened to her--doors so great and tall that the
beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain to
enter at them. Dear brethren, let us tremble before
those august portals. I fancy them guarded by grooms
of the chamber with flaming silver forks with which they
prong all those who have not the right of the entree.
They say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the
hall and takes down the names of the great ones who
are admitted to the feasts dies after a little time. He
can't survive the glare of fashion long. It scorches him
up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that
poor imprudent Semele--a giddy moth of a creature who
ruined herself by venturing out of her natural atmosphere.
Her myth ought to be taken to heart amongst the
Tyburnians, the Belgravians--her story, and perhaps
Becky's too. Ah, ladies!--ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer
if Belgravia is not a sounding brass and Tyburnia a
tinkling cymbal. These are vanities. Even these will pass
away. And some day or other (but it will be after our
time, thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be no
better known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts
of Babylon, and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as
Baker Street, or Tadmor in the wilderness.

Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker
Street? What would not your grandmothers have given
to be asked to Lady Hester's parties in that now
decayed mansion? I have dined in it--moi qui vous parle,
I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead.
As we sat soberly drinking claret there with men of
to-day, the spirits of the departed came in and took their
places round the darksome board. The pilot who
weathered the storm tossed off great bumpers of spiritual
port; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a
heeltap. Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastly
manner, and would not be behindhand when the
noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under bushy eyebrows,
winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce's
eyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to
know how his glass went up full to his mouth and came
down empty; up to the ceiling which was above us only
yesterday, and which the great of the past days have all
looked at. They let the house as a furnished lodging
now. Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and
lies asleep in the wilderness. Eothen saw her there--
not in Baker Street, but in the other solitude.

It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to
liking a little of it? I should like to know what well-
constituted mind, merely because it is transitory, dislikes
roast beef? That is a vanity, but may every man who
reads this have a wholesome portion of it through life,
I beg: aye, though my readers were five hundred
thousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to, with a good hearty
appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horse-radish
as you like it--don't spare it. Another glass of wine,
Jones, my boy--a little bit of the Sunday side. Yes, let
us eat our fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor.
And let us make the best of Becky's aristocratic
pleasures likewise--for these too, like all other mortal
delights, were but transitory.

The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His
Highness the Prince of Peterwaradin took occasion to
renew his acquaintance with Colonel Crawley, when
they met on the next day at the Club, and to compliment
Mrs. Crawley in the Ring of Hyde Park with a
profound salute of the hat. She and her husband were
invited immediately to one of the Prince's small parties
at Levant House, then occupied by His Highness during
the temporary absence from England of its noble
proprietor. She sang after dinner to a very little comite.
The Marquis of Steyne was present, paternally
superintending the progress of his pupil.

At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen
and greatest ministers that Europe has produced--
the Duc de la Jabotiere, then Ambassador from the Most
Christian King, and subsequently Minister to that
monarch. I declare I swell with pride as these august names
are transcribed by my pen, and I think in what brilliant
company my dear Becky is moving. She became a
constant guest at the French Embassy, where no party was
considered to be complete without the presence of the
charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley.

Messieurs de Truffigny (of the Perigord family) and
Champignac, both attaches of the Embassy, were
straightway smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel's
wife, and both declared, according to the wont of their
nation (for who ever yet met a Frenchman, come out of
England, that has not left half a dozen families miserable,
and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?),
both, I say, declared that they were au mieux with the
charming Madame Ravdonn.

But I doubt the correctness of the assertion. Champignac
was very fond of ecarte, and made many parties
with the Colonel of evenings, while Becky was singing to
Lord Steyne in the other room; and as for Truffigny, it is
a well-known fact that he dared not go to the Travellers',
where he owed money to the waiters, and if he had not
had the Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy young
gentleman must have starved. I doubt, I say, that Becky
would have selected either of these young men as a
person on whom she would bestow her special regard. They
ran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers,
went in debt for opera-boxes for her, and made
themselves amiable in a thousand ways. And they talked
English with adorable simplicity, and to the constant
amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimic
one or other to his face, and compliment him on his
advance in the English language with a gravity which never
failed to tickle the Marquis, her sardonic old patron.
Truffigny gave Briggs a shawl by way of winning over
Becky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of a
letter which the simple spinster handed over in public
to the person to whom it was addressed, and the
composition of which amused everybody who read it greatly.
Lord Steyne read it, everybody but honest Rawdon, to
whom it was not necessary to tell everything that passed
in the little house in May Fair.

Here, before long, Becky received not only "the best"
foreigners (as the phrase is in our noble and admirable
society slang), but some of the best English people too.
I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeed the least
virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest, or
the best born, but "the best,"--in a word, people about
whom there is no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-
Willis, that Patron Saint of Almack's, the great Lady
Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth (she was
Lady G. Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry),
and the like. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (her
Ladyship is of the Kingstreet family, see Debrett and
Burke) takes up a person, he or she is safe. There is no
question about them any more. Not that my Lady Fitz-
Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the
contrary, a faded person, fifty-seven years of age, and
neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining; but it is
agreed on all sides that she is of the "best people."
Those who go to her are of the best: and from an old
grudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her
ladyship, then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter
of the Prince of Wales's favourite, the Earl of Portansherry,
had once tried), this great and famous leader of
the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley; made her a most marked curtsey at the assembly
over which she presided; and not only encouraged her
son, St. Kitts (his lordship got his place through Lord
Steyne's interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but
asked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice in
the most public and condescending manner during
dinner. The important fact was known all over London that
night. People who had been crying fie about Mrs.
Crawley were silent. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord
Steyne's right-hand man, went about everywhere praising
her: some who had hesitated, came forward at once
and welcomed her; little Tom Toady, who had warned
Southdown about visiting such an abandoned woman,
now besought to be introduced to her. In a word, she
was admitted to be among the "best" people. Ah, my
beloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Becky
prematurely--glory like this is said to be fugitive. It is
currently reported that even in the very inmost circles,
they are no happier than the poor wanderers outside the
zone; and Becky, who penetrated into the very centre of
fashion and saw the great George IV face to face, has
owned since that there too was Vanity.

We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her
career. As I cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry,
although I have a shrewd idea that it is a humbug,
so an uninitiated man cannot take upon himself to
portray the great world accurately, and had best keep his
opinions to himself, whatever they are.

Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of this
season of her life, when she moved among the very
greatest circles of the London fashion. Her success
excited, elated, and then bored her. At first no occupation
was more pleasant than to invent and procure (the latter
a work of no small trouble and ingenuity, by the way, in
a person of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means)
--to procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses and
ornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where she was
welcomed by great people; and from the fine dinner
parties to fine assemblies, whither the same people came
with whom she had been dining, whom she had met the
night before, and would see on the morrow--the young
men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, with
the neatest glossy boots and white gloves--the elders
portly, brass-buttoned, noble-looking, polite, and prosy
--the young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink--the
mothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and in
diamonds. They talked in English, not in bad French, as
they do in the novels. They talked about each others'
houses, and characters, and families--just as the Joneses
do about the Smiths. Becky's former acquaintances hated
and envied her; the poor woman herself was yawning in
spirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself. "I
would rather be a parson's wife and teach a Sunday
school than this; or a sergeant's lady and ride in the
regimental waggon; or, oh, how much gayer it would be
to wear spangles and trousers and dance before a booth
at a fair."

"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing.
She used to tell the great man her ennuis and
perplexities in her artless way--they amused him.

"Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer--Master of
the Ceremonies--what do you call him--the man in the
large boots and the uniform, who goes round the ring
cracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a military
figure. I recollect," Becky continued pensively, "my
father took me to see a show at Brookgreen Fair when I
was a child, and when we came home, I made myself a
pair of stilts and danced in the studio to the wonder of
all the pupils."

"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.

"I should like to do it now," Becky continued. "How
Lady Blinkey would open her eyes, and Lady Grizzel
Macbeth would stare! Hush! silence! there is Pasta
beginning to sing." Becky always made a point of being
conspicuously polite to the professional ladies and
gentlemen who attended at these aristocratic parties--of
following them into the corners where they sat in silence,
and shaking hands with them, and smiling in the view of
all persons. She was an artist herself, as she said very
truly; there was a frankness and humility in the manner
in which she acknowledged her origin, which provoked,
or disarmed, or amused lookers-on, as the case might
be. "How cool that woman is," said one; "what airs of
independence she assumes, where she ought to sit still
and be thankful if anybody speaks to her!" "What an
honest and good-natured soul she is!" said another.
"What an artful little minx" said a third. They were all
right very likely, but Becky went her own way, and so
fascinated the professional personages that they would
leave off their sore throats in order to sing at her parties
and give her lessons for nothing.

Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon
Street. Many scores of carriages, with blazing lamps,
blocked up the street, to the disgust of No. 100, who
could not rest for the thunder of the knocking, and of
102, who could not sleep for envy. The gigantic footmen
who accompanied the vehicles were too big to be
contained in Becky's little hall, and were billeted off in the
neighbouring public-houses, whence, when they were
wanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer.
Scores of the great dandies of London squeezed and
trod on each other on the little stairs, laughing to find
themselves there; and many spotless and severe ladies of
ton were seated in the little drawing-room, listening to
the professional singers, who were singing according to
their wont, and as if they wished to blow the windows
down. And the day after, there appeared among the
fashionable reunions in the Morning Post a paragraph
to the following effect:

"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a
select party at dinner at their house in May Fair. Their
Excellencies the Prince and Princess of Peterwaradin,
H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador (attended
by Kibob Bey, dragoman of the mission), the Marquess
of Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and Lady
Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg, &c. After dinner Mrs. Crawley
had an assembly which was attended by the Duchess
(Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchioness
of Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de
Brie, Baron Schapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess of
Slingstone, and Lady F. Macadam, Major-General and
Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths; Viscount
Paddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin,
Bobachy Bahawder," and an &c., which the reader may fill
at his pleasure through a dozen close lines of small type.

And in her commerce with the great our dear friend
showed the same frankness which distinguished her
transactions with the lowly in station. On one occasion,
when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was (perhaps
rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in the
French language with a celebrated tenor singer of that
nation, while the Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked over her
shoulder scowling at the pair.

"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said,
who herself spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh accent
most remarkable to hear.

"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting
down her eyes. "I taught it in a school, and my mother
was a Frenchwoman."

Lady Grizzel was won by her humility and was
mollified towards the little woman. She deplored the fatal
levelling tendencies of the age, which admitted persons
of all classes into the society of their superiors, but her
ladyship owned that this one at least was well behaved
and never forgot her place in life. She was a very good
woman: good to the poor; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious.
It is not her ladyship's fault that she fancies herself
better than you and me. The skirts of her ancestors'
garments have been kissed for centuries; it is a thousand
years, they say, since the tartans of the head of the
family were embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords and
councillors, when the great ancestor of the House
became King of Scotland.

Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before
Becky, and perhaps was not disinclined to her. The
younger ladies of the house of Gaunt were also
compelled into submission. Once or twice they set people at
her, but they failed. The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried
a passage of arms with her, but was routed with great
slaughter by the intrepid little Becky. When attacked
sometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting a demure
ingenue air, under which she was most dangerous. She
said the wickedest things with the most simple unaffected
air when in this mood, and would take care artlessly to
apologize for her blunders, so that all the world should
know that she had made them.

Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain and
trencher-man of my Lord Steyne, was caused by the
ladies to charge her; and the worthy fellow, leering at his
patronesses and giving them a wink, as much as to say,
"Now look out for sport," one evening began an assault
upon Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating her dinner.
The little woman, attacked on a sudden, but never
without arms, lighted up in an instant, parried and riposted
with a home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tingle with
shame; then she returned to her soup with the most
perfect calm and a quiet smile on her face. Wagg's great
patron, who gave him dinners and lent him a little money
sometimes, and whose election, newspaper, and other
jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a savage
glance with the eyes as almost made him sink under the
table and burst into tears. He looked piteously at my
lord, who never spoke to him during dinner, and at the
ladies, who disowned him. At last Becky herself took
compassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk.
He was not asked to dinner again for six weeks; and
Fiche, my lord's confidential man, to whom Wagg
naturally paid a good deal of court, was instructed to tell
him that if he ever dared to say a rude thing to Mrs.
Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes,
Milor would put every one of his notes of hand into his
lawyer's hands and sell him up without mercy. Wagg
wept before Fiche and implored his dear friend to intercede
for him. He wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R. C.,
which appeared in the very next number of the Harum-
scarum Magazine, which he conducted. He implored her
good-will at parties where he met her. He cringed and
coaxed Rawdon at the club. He was allowed to come back
to Gaunt House after a while. Becky was always good to
him, always amused, never angry.

His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant
(with a seat in parliament and at the dinner table), Mr.
Wenham, was much more prudent in his behaviour and
opinions than Mr. Wagg. However much he might be
disposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a
staunch old True Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-
merchant in the north of England), this aide-de-camp of
the Marquis never showed any sort of hostility to the
new favourite, but pursued her with stealthy kindnesses
and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow
made Becky more uneasy than other people's overt
hostilities.

How the Crawleys got the money which was spent
upon the entertainments with which they treated the
polite world was a mystery which gave rise to some
conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these
little festivities. Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley
gave his brother a handsome allowance; if he did,
Becky's power over the Baronet must have been
extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly changed in his
advanced age. Other parties hinted that it was Becky's
habit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends:
going to this one in tears with an account that there was
an execution in the house; falling on her knees to that
one and declaring that the whole family must go to gaol
or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could be
paid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to
give many hundreds through these pathetic representations.
Young Feltham, of the --th Dragoons (and son of the firm of
Tiler and Feltham, hatters and army accoutrement makers),
and whom the Crawleys introduced into fashionable
life, was also cited as one of Becky's victims in the
pecuniary way. People declared that she got money
from various simply disposed persons, under pretence of
getting them confidential appointments under Government.
Who knows what stories were or were not told of
our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she had
had all the money which she was said to have begged or
borrowed or stolen, she might have capitalized and been
honest for life, whereas,--but this is advancing matters.

The truth is, that by economy and good management--
by a sparing use of ready money and by paying scarcely
anybody--people can manage, for a time at least, to
make a great show with very little means: and it is our
belief that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were
not, after all was said, very numerous, cost this lady very
little more than the wax candles which lighted the walls.
Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with game
and fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at her
disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cooks
presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's
order the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it is
quite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature,
as people of her time abuse Becky, and I warn the
public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her.
If every person is to be banished from society who runs
into debt and cannot pay--if we are to be peering into
everybody's private life, speculating upon their income,
and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure
--why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling
Vanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would be
against his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the
benefits of civilization would be done away with. We
should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding one another. Our
houses would become caverns, and we should go in rags
because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down.
Parties wouldn't be given any more. All the tradesmen
of the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights,
comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs,
Louis-Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and
splendid high-stepping carriage horses--all the delights
of life, I say,--would go to the deuce, if people did but
act upon their silly principles and avoid those whom they
dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutual
forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly
enough: we may abuse a man as much as we like, and
call him the greatest rascal unhanged--but do we wish
to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when we
meet. If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dine
with him, and we expect he will do the same by us. Thus
trade flourishes--civilization advances; peace is kept;
new dresses are wanted for new assemblies every week;
and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate the
honest proprietor who reared it.

At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great
George was on the throne and ladies wore gigots and
large combs like tortoise-shell shovels in their hair,
instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreaths which are
actually in fashion, the manners of the very polite world
were not, I take it, essentially different from those of the
present day: and their amusements pretty similar. To us,
from the outside, gazing over the policeman's shoulders
at the bewildering beauties as they pass into Court or
ball, they may seem beings of unearthly splendour and in
the enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by us unattainable.
It is to console some of these dissatisfied beings
that we are narrating our dear Becky's struggles, and
triumphs, and disappointments, of all of which, indeed,
as is the case with all persons of merit, she had her share.

At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades
had come among us from France, and was considerably
in vogue in this country, enabling the many ladies
amongst us who had beauty to display their charms, and
the fewer number who had cleverness to exhibit their wit.
My Lord Steyne was incited by Becky, who perhaps
believed herself endowed with both the above qualifications,
to give an entertainment at Gaunt House, which should
include some of these little dramas--and we must take
leave to introduce the reader to this brilliant reunion,
and, with a melancholy welcome too, for it will be among
the very last of the fashionable entertainments to which
it will be our fortune to conduct him.

A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of
Gaunt House, was arranged as the charade theatre. It
had been so used when George III was king; and a
picture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant, with his hair
in powder and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as it
was called, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. Addison's
tragedy of that name, performed before their Royal
Highnesses the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburgh,
and Prince William Henry, then children like the actor.
One or two of the old properties were drawn out of the
garrets, where they had lain ever since, and furbished up
anew for the present festivities.

Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern
traveller, was manager of the revels. An Eastern traveller
was somebody in those days, and the adventurous
Bedwin, who had published his quarto and passed some
months under the tents in the desert, was a personage of
no small importance. In his volume there were several
pictures of Sands in various oriental costumes; and he
travelled about with a black attendant of most
unprepossessing appearance, just like another Brian de Bois
Guilbert. Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, were
hailed at Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.

He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an
immense plume of feathers (the Janizaries were
supposed to be still in existence, and the tarboosh had not
as yet displaced the ancient and majestic head-dress of
the true believers) was seen couched on a divan, and
making believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however,
for the sake of the ladies, only a fragrant pastille was
allowed to smoke. The Turkish dignitary yawns and
expresses signs of weariness and idleness. He claps his hands
and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms,
bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt,
tall, and hideous. He makes a salaam before my lord the
Aga.

A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly.
The ladies whisper to one another. The black slave
was given to Bedwin Sands by an Egyptian pasha in
exchange for three dozen of Maraschino. He has sewn up
ever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them into
the Nile.

"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish
voluptuary with a wave of his hand. Mesrour conducts the
slave-merchant into my lord's presence; he brings a
veiled female with him. He removes the veil. A thrill of
applause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth
(she was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and
hair. She is in a gorgeous oriental costume; the black
braided locks are twined with innumerable jewels; her
dress is covered over with gold piastres. The odious
Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. She
falls down on her knees and entreats him to restore her
to the mountains where she was born, and where her
Circassian lover is still deploring the absence of his Zuleikah.
No entreaties will move the obdurate Hassan. He
laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom.
Zuleikah covers her face with her hands and drops down in
an attitude of the most beautiful despair. There seems to
be no hope for her, when--when the Kislar Aga appears.

The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassan
receives and places on his head the dread firman. A
ghastly terror seizes him, while on the Negro's face (it is
Mesrour again in another costume) appears a ghastly
joy. "Mercy! mercy!" cries the Pasha: while the Kislar
Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.

The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful
weapon. Hassan from within bawls out, "First two
syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who is going to act in
the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.
Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her
costume.

The second part of the charade takes place. It is still
an Eastern scene. Hassan, in another dress, is in an
attitude by Zuleikah, who is perfectly reconciled to him.
The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black slave. It is
sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads
eastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries
at hand, the band facetiously plays "The Camels
are coming." An enormous Egyptian head figures in the
scene. It is a musical one--and, to the surprise of the
oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by Mr.
Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like
Papageno and the Moorish King in The Magic Flute. "Last
two syllables," roars the head.

The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A
tall and stalwart man reposes on a couch there. Above
him hang his helmet and shield. There is no need for
them now. Ilium is down. Iphigenia is slain. Cassandra is
a prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (it is
Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sack
of Ilium or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andron
is asleep in his chamber at Argos. A lamp casts the
broad shadow of the sleeping warrior flickering on the
wall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its light.
The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before the
statue enters.

Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is that
ghastly face looking out balefully after him from behind
the arras? He raises his dagger to strike the sleeper, who
turns in his bed, and opens his broad chest as if for the
blow. He cannot strike the noble slumbering chieftain.
Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like an
apparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hair
floats down her shoulders--her face is deadly pale--and
her eyes are lighted up with a smile so ghastly that
people quake as they look at her.

A tremor ran through the room. "Good God!" somebody
said, "it's Mrs. Rawdon Crawley."

Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's
hand and advances to the bed. You see it shining over
her head in the glimmer of the lamp, and--and the lamp
goes out, with a groan, and all is dark.

The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca
performed her part so well, and with such ghastly
truth, that the spectators were all dumb, until, with a
burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again, when
everybody began to shout applause. "Brava! brava!" old
Steyne's strident voice was heard roaring over all the
rest. "By--, she'd do it too," he said between his teeth.
The performers were called by the whole house, which
sounded with cries of "Manager! Clytemnestra!"
Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classical
tunic, but stood in the background with Aegisthus and
others of the performers of the little play. Mr. Bedwin
Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra. A great
personage insisted on being presented to the charming
Clytemnestra. "Heigh ha? Run him through the body.
Marry somebody else, hay?" was the apposite remark
made by His Royal Highness.

"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part,"
said Lord Steyne. Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking,
and swept the prettiest little curtsey ever seen.

Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool
dainties, and the performers disappeared to get ready
for the second charade-tableau.

The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted
in pantomime, and the performance took place in the
following wise:

First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a
slouched hat and a staff, a great-coat, and a lantern
borrowed from the stables, passed across the stage bawling
out, as if warning the inhabitants of the hour. In the
lower window are seen two bagmen playing apparently
at the game of cribbage, over which they yawn much.
To them enters one looking like Boots (the Honourable
G. Ringwood), which character the young gentleman
performed to perfection, and divests them of their lower
coverings; and presently Chambermaid (the Right
Honourable Lord Southdown) with two candlesticks, and a
warming-pan. She ascends to the upper apartment and
warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a weapon
wherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen.
She exits. They put on their night-caps and pull down
the blinds. Boots comes out and closes the shutters of
the ground-floor chamber. You hear him bolting and
chaining the door within. All the lights go out. The music
plays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours. A voice from
behind the curtain says, "First syllable."

Second syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of a
sudden. The music plays the old air from John of Paris,
Ah quel plaisir d'etre en voyage. It is the same scene.
Between the first and second floors of the house
represented, you behold a sign on which the Steyne arms
are painted. All the bells are ringing all over the house.
In the lower apartment you see a man with a long slip of
paper presenting it to another, who shakes his fists,
threatens and vows that it is monstrous. "Ostler, bring
round my gig," cries another at the door. He chucks
Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown)
under the chin; she seems to deplore his absence, as
Calypso did that of that other eminent traveller Ulysses.
Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes with a
wooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries "Pots"
with such exquisite humour and naturalness that the
whole house rings with applause, and a bouquet is thrown
to him. Crack, crack, crack, go the whips.  Landlord,
chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just as some
distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and the
invisible theatrical manager cries out "Second syllable."

"I think it must be 'Hotel,' " says Captain Grigg of the
Life Guards; there is a general laugh at the Captain's
cleverness. He is not very far from the mark.

While the third syllable is in preparation, the band
begins a nautical medley--"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude
Boreas," "Rule Britannia," "In the Bay of Biscay O!"--
some maritime event is about to take place. A ben is
heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents,
for the shore!" a voice exclaims. People take leave of
each other. They point anxiously as if towards the clouds,
which are represented by a dark curtain, and they nod
their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right Honourable
Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and
husband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is
evidently a ship.

The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked
hat and a telescope, comes in, holding his hat on his
head, and looks out; his coat tails fly about as if in the
wind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his telescope,
his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowing
fresh. The music rises and whistles louder and louder;
the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if the ship
was in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G.
Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six basins. He puts
one rapidly by Lord Squeams--Lady Squeams, giving a
pinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts
her pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as
for the cabin. The music rises up to the wildest pitch of
stormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded.

There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in which
Montessu and Noblet used to be famous in those days,
and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the English stage as
an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilful
writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It was dressed in
old French costume, and little Lord Southdown now
appeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old woman
hobbling about the stage with a faultless crooked stick.

Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and
gurgling from a sweet pasteboard cottage covered with
roses and trellis work. "Philomele, Philomele," cries
the old woman, and Philomele comes out.

More applause--it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder
and patches, the most ravissante little Marquise in the
world.

She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the
stage with all the innocence of theatrical youth--she
makes a curtsey. Mamma says "Why, child, you are
always laughing and singing," and away she goes, with--

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY

The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming
Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;
You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is
  blooming,
It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood
  ringing,
Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were
  blowing keen:
And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found
  their voices,
The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to
  dye;
And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens
  and rejoices,
And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason
  why.

During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the
good-natured personage addressed as Mamma by the
singer, and whose large whiskers appeared under her cap,
seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal affection
by embracing the innocent creature who performed the
daughter's part. Every caress was received with loud
acclamations of laughter by the sympathizing audience.
At its conclusion (while the music was performing a
symphony as if ever so many birds were warbling) the
whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause
and bouquets without end were showered upon the
Nightingale of the evening. Lord Steyne's voice of
applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale, took
the flowers which he threw to her and pressed them to
her heart with the air of a consummate comedian. Lord
Steyne was frantic with delight. His guests' enthusiasm
harmonized with his own. Where was the beautiful
black-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charade had
caused such delight? She was twice as handsome as
Becky, but the brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed
her. All voices were for her. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi
de Begnis, people compared her to one or the other, and
agreed with good reason, very likely, that had she been
an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her.
She had reached her culmination: her voice rose trilling
and bright over the storm of applause, and soared as
high and joyful as her triumph. There was a ball after
the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressed
round Becky as the great point of attraction of the
evening. The Royal Personage declared with an oath that
she was perfection, and engaged her again and again in
conversation. Little Becky's soul swelled with pride and
delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashion
before her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her
everywhere, and scarcely spoke to any one in the room
beside, and paid her the most marked compliments and
attention. She still appeared in her Marquise costume
and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny,
Monsieur Le Duc de la Jabotiere's attache; and the
Duke, who had all the traditions of the ancient court,
pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have
been a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at Versailles.
Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest
sense of duty and personal sacrifice prevented his
Excellency from dancing with her himself, and he declared
in public that a lady who could talk and dance like Mrs.
Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in
Europe. He was only consoled when he heard that she
was half a Frenchwoman by birth. "None but a
compatriot," his Excellency declared, "could have performed
that majestic dance in such a way."

Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de
Klingenspohr, the Prince of Peterwaradin's cousin and
attache. The delighted Prince, having less retenue than
his French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon taking a
turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the
ball-room with her, scattering the diamonds out of his
boot-tassels and hussar jacket until his Highness was fairly
out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself would have liked
to dance with her if that amusement had been the custom
of his country. The company made a circle round her
and applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet or
a Taglioni. Everybody was in ecstacy; and Becky too,
you may be sure. She passed by Lady Stunnington with
a look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt and her
astonished and mortified sister-in-law--she ecrased all
rival charmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, and her
long hair and great eyes, which had made such an effect
at the commencement of the evening--where was she
now? Nowhere in the race. She might tear her long hair
and cry her great eyes out, but there was not a person
to heed or to deplore the discomfiture.

The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. She
was placed at the grand exclusive table with his Royal
Highness the exalted personage before mentioned, and
the rest of the great guests. She was served on gold
plate. She might have had pearls melted into her
champagne if she liked--another Cleopatra--and the potentate
of Peterwaradin would have given half the brilliants off
his jacket for a kind glance from those dazzling eyes.
Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. The
ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver and
marked Lord Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed
it was a monstrous infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of
rank. If sarcasm could have killed, Lady Stunnington
would have slain her on the spot.

Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They
seemed to separate his wife farther than ever from him
somehow. He thought with a feeling very like pain how
immeasurably she was his superior.

When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young
men followed her to her carriage, for which the people
without bawled, the cry being caught up by the link-men
who were stationed outside the tall gates of Gaunt
House, congratulating each person who issued from the
gate and hoping his Lordship had enjoyed this noble
party.

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the
gate after due shouting, rattled into the illuminated
court-yard and drove up to the covered way. Rawdon
put his wife into the carriage, which drove off. Mr.
Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered
the Colonel the refreshment of a cigar.

They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the
many link-boys outside, and Rawdon walked on with his
friend Wenham. Two persons separated from the crowd
and followed the two gentlemen; and when they had
walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one
of the men came up and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder,
said, "Beg your pardon, Colonel, I vish to speak to
you most particular." This gentleman's acquaintance
gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal a
cab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate
of Gaunt House--and the aide-de-camp ran round and
placed himself in front of Colonel Crawley.

That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen
him. He was in the hands of the bailiffs. He started back,
falling against the man who had first touched him.

"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the man
behind said.

"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared
to know his interlocutor. "How much is it?"

"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor
Street, Chancery Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff
of Middlesex--"One hundred and sixty-six, six and eight-
pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan."

"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor
Rawdon said--"I've got seventy at home."

"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr.
Wenham--"Good night, my dear fellow."

"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham
walked away--and Rawdon Crawley finished his cigar
as the cab drove under Temple Bar.

CHAPTER LII

In Which Lord Steyne Shows Himself in a Most Amiable Light

When Lord Steyne was benevolently disposed, he did
nothing by halves, and his kindness towards the Crawley
family did the greatest honour to his benevolent
discrimination. His lordship extended his good-will to little
Rawdon: he pointed out to the boy's parents the necessity
of sending him to a public school, that he was of
an age now when emulation, the first principles of the
Latin language, pugilistic exercises, and the society of
his fellow-boys would be of the greatest benefit to the
boy. His father objected that he was not rich enough to
send the child to a good public school; his mother that
Briggs was a capital mistress for him, and had brought
him on (as indeed was the fact) famously in English,
the Latin rudiments, and in general learning: but all these
objections disappeared before the generous perseverance
of the Marquis of Steyne. His lordship was one of the
governors of that famous old collegiate institution called
the Whitefriars. It had been a Cistercian Convent in old
days, when the Smithfield, which is contiguous to it, was
a tournament ground. Obstinate heretics used to be
brought thither convenient for burning hard by. Henry
VIII, the Defender of the Faith, seized upon the
monastery and its possessions and hanged and tortured some
of the monks who could not accommodate themselves to
the pace of his reform. Finally, a great merchant bought
the house and land adjoining, in which, and with the help
of other wealthy endowments of land and money, he
established a famous foundation hospital for old men
and children. An extern school grew round the old almost
monastic foundation, which subsists still with its
middle-age costume and usages--and all Cistercians pray
that it may long flourish.

Of this famous house, some of the greatest noblemen,
prelates, and dignitaries in England are governors: and
as the boys are very comfortably lodged, fed, and
educated, and subsequently inducted to good scholarships
at the University and livings in the Church, many little
gentlemen are devoted to the ecclesiastical profession
from their tenderest years, and there is considerable
emulation to procure nominations for the foundation. It
was originally intended for the sons of poor and
deserving clerics and laics, but many of the noble governors
of the Institution, with an enlarged and rather capricious
benevolence, selected all sorts of objects for their bounty.
To get an education for nothing, and a future livelihood
and profession assured, was so excellent a scheme that
some of the richest people did not disdain it; and not
only great men's relations, but great men themselves, sent
their sons to profit by the chance--Right Rev. prelates
sent their own kinsmen or the sons of their clergy, while,
on the other hand, some great noblemen did not disdain
to patronize the children of their confidential servants--
so that a lad entering this establishment had every
variety of youthful society wherewith to mingle.

Rawdon Crawley, though the only book which he studied
was the Racing Calendar, and though his chief
recollections of polite learning were connected with the
floggings which he received at Eton in his early youth,
had that decent and honest reverence for classical learning
which all English gentlemen feel, and was glad to think
that his son was to have a provision for life, perhaps,
and a certain opportunity of becoming a scholar. And
although his boy was his chief solace and companion, and
endeared to him by a thousand small ties, about which
he did not care to speak to his wife, who had all along
shown the utmost indifference to their son, yet Rawdon
agreed at once to part with him and to give up his own
greatest comfort and benefit for the sake of the welfare
of the little lad. He did not know how fond he was of
the child until it became necessary to let him go away.
When he was gone, he felt more sad and downcast than
he cared to own--far sadder than the boy himself, who
was happy enough to enter a new career and find
companions of his own age. Becky burst out laughing once
or twice when the Colonel, in his clumsy, incoherent way,
tried to express his sentimental sorrows at the boy's
departure. The poor fellow felt that his dearest pleasure
and closest friend was taken from him. He looked often
and wistfully at the little vacant bed in his dressing-room,
where the child used to sleep. He missed him sadly of
mornings and tried in vain to walk in the park without
him. He did not know how solitary he was until little
Rawdon was gone. He liked the people who were fond of
him, and would go and sit for long hours with his
good-natured sister Lady Jane, and talk to her about
the virtues, and good looks, and hundred good qualities
of the child.

Young Rawdon's aunt, we have said, was very fond
of him, as was her little girl, who wept copiously when
the time for her cousin's departure came. The elder
Rawdon was thankful for the fondness of mother and
daughter. The very best and honestest feelings of the
man came out in these artless outpourings of paternal
feeling in which he indulged in their presence, and
encouraged by their sympathy. He secured not only Lady
Jane's kindness, but her sincere regard, by the feelings
which he manifested, and which he could not show to his
own wife. The two kinswomen met as seldom as possible.
Becky laughed bitterly at Jane's feelings and softness;
the other's kindly and gentle nature could not but revolt
at her sister's callous behaviour.

It estranged Rawdon from his wife more than he knew
or acknowledged to himself. She did not care for the
estrangement. Indeed, she did not miss him or anybody.
She looked upon him as her errand-man and humble
slave. He might be ever so depressed or sulky, and she
did not mark his demeanour, or only treated it with a
sneer. She was busy thinking about her position, or her
pleasures, or her advancement in society; she ought to
have held a great place in it, that is certain.

It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the
boy which he was to take to school. Molly, the housemaid,
blubbered in the passage when he went away--
Molly kind and faithful in spite of a long arrear of
unpaid wages. Mrs. Becky could not let her husband have
the carriage to take the boy to school. Take the horses
into the City!--such a thing was never heard of. Let a
cab be brought. She did not offer to kiss him when he
went, nor did the child propose to embrace her; but
gave a kiss to old Briggs (whom, in general, he was very
shy of caressing), and consoled her by pointing out that
he was to come home on Saturdays, when she would
have the benefit of seeing him. As the cab rolled towards
the City, Becky's carriage rattled off to the park. She
was chattering and laughing with a score of young dandies
by the Serpentine as the father and son entered at the
old gates of the school--where Rawdon left the child
and came away with a sadder purer feeling in his heart
than perhaps that poor battered fellow had ever known
since he himself came out of the nursery.

He walked all the way home very dismally, and dined
alone with Briggs. He was very kind to her and grateful
for her love and watchfulness over the boy. His
conscience smote him that he had borrowed Briggs's money
and aided in deceiving her. They talked about little
Rawdon a long time, for Becky only came home to dress
and go out to dinner--and then he went off uneasily to
drink tea with Lady Jane, and tell her of what had
happened, and how little Rawdon went off like a trump, and
how he was to wear a gown and little knee-breeches, and
how young Blackball, Jack Blackball's son, of the old
regiment, had taken him in charge and promised to be
kind to him.

In the course of a week, young Blackball had
constituted little Rawdon his fag, shoe-black, and breakfast
toaster; initiated him into the mysteries of the Latin
Grammar; and thrashed him three or four times, but not
severely. The little chap's good-natured honest face won
his way for him. He only got that degree of beating which
was, no doubt, good for him; and as for blacking shoes,
toasting bread, and fagging in general, were these offices
not deemed to be necessary parts of every young English
gentleman's education?

Our business does not lie with the second generation
and Master Rawdon's life at school, otherwise the present
tale might be carried to any indefinite length. The Colonel
went to see his son a short time afterwards and found
the lad sufficiently well and happy, grinning and laughing
in his little black gown and little breeches.

His father sagaciously tipped Blackball, his master, a
sovereign, and secured that young gentleman's good-will
towards his fag. As a protege of the great Lord Steyne,
the nephew of a County member, and son of a Colonel
and C.B., whose name appeared in some of the most
fashionable parties in the Morning Post, perhaps the
school authorities were disposed not to look unkindly on
the child. He had plenty of pocket-money, which he
spent in treating his comrades royally to raspberry tarts,
and he was often allowed to come home on Saturdays
to his father, who always made a jubilee of that day.
When free, Rawdon would take him to the play, or send
him thither with the footman; and on Sundays he went to
church with Briggs and Lady Jane and his cousins.
Rawdon marvelled over his stories about school, and
fights, and fagging. Before long, he knew the names of all
the masters and the principal boys as well as little
Rawdon himself. He invited little Rawdon's crony from
school, and made both the children sick with pastry, and
oysters, and porter after the play. He tried to look knowing
over the Latin grammar when little Rawdon showed
him what part of that work he was "in." "Stick to it, my
boy," he said to him with much gravity, "there's nothing
like a good classical education! Nothing!"

Becky's contempt for her husband grew greater every
day. "Do what you like--dine where you please--go and
have ginger-beer and sawdust at Astley's, or psalm-
singing with Lady Jane--only don't expect me to busy
myself with the boy. I have your interests to attend to,
as you can't attend to them yourself. I should like to
know where you would have been now, and in what sort
of a position in society, if I had not looked after you."
Indeed, nobody wanted poor old Rawdon at the parties
whither Becky used to go. She was often asked without
him now. She talked about great people as if she had the
fee-simple of May Fair, and when the Court went into
mourning, she always wore black.

Little Rawdon being disposed of, Lord Steyne, who
took such a parental interest in the affairs of this amiable
poor family, thought that their expenses might be very
advantageously curtailed by the departure of Miss Briggs,
and that Becky was quite clever enough to take the
management of her own house. It has been narrated in a
former chapter how the benevolent nobleman had given
his protegee money.to pay off her little debt to Miss
Briggs, who however still remained behind with her
friends; whence my lord came to the painful conclusion
that Mrs. Crawley had made some other use of the
money confided to her than that for which her generous
patron had given the loan. However, Lord Steyne was
not so rude as to impart his suspicions upon this head to
Mrs. Becky, whose feelings might be hurt by any
controversy on the money-question, and who might have a
thousand painful reasons for disposing otherwise of his
lordship's generous loan. But he determined to satisfy
himself of the real state of the case, and instituted the
necessary inquiries in a most cautious and delicate
manner.

In the first place he took an early opportunity of
pumping Miss Briggs. That was not a difficult operation.
A very little encouragement would set that worthy woman
to talk volubly and pour out all within her. And one day
when Mrs. Rawdon had gone out to drive (as Mr. Fiche,
his lordship's confidential servant, easily learned at the
livery stables where the Crawleys kept their carriage and
horses, or rather, where the livery-man kept a carriage
and horses for Mr. and Mrs. Crawley)--my lord dropped
in upon the Curzon Street house--asked Briggs for a cup
of coffee--told her that he had good accounts of the little
boy at school--and in five minutes found out from her
that Mrs. Rawdon had given her nothing except a black
silk gown, for which Miss Briggs was immensely grateful.

He laughed within himself at this artless story. For the
truth is, our dear friend Rebecca had given him a most
circumstantial narration of Briggs's delight at receiving
her money--eleven hundred and twenty-five pounds--
and in what securities she had invested it; and what a
pang Becky herself felt in being obliged to pay away such
a delightful sum of money. "Who knows," the dear
woman may have thought within herself, "perhaps he
may give me a little more?" My lord, however, made no
such proposal to the little schemer--very likely thinking
that he had been sufficiently generous already.

He had the curiosity, then, to ask Miss Briggs about
the state of her private affairs--and she told his lordship
candidly what her position was--how Miss Crawley had
left her a legacy--how her relatives had had part of it
--how Colonel Crawley had put out another portion, for
which she had the best security and interest--and how
Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon had kindly busied themselves with
Sir Pitt, who was to dispose of the remainder most
advantageously for her, when he had time. My lord asked
how much the Colonel had already invested for her, and
Miss Briggs at once and truly told him that the sum was
six hundred and odd pounds.

But as soon as she had told her story, the voluble
Briggs repented of her frankness and besought my lord
not to tell Mr. Crawley of the confessions which she had
made. "The Colonel was so kind--Mr. Crawley might
be offended and pay back the money, for which she
could get no such good interest anywhere else." Lord
Steyne, laughing, promised he never would divulge their
conversation, and when he and Miss Briggs parted he
laughed still more.

"What an accomplished little devil it is!" thought he.
"What a splendid actress and manager! She had almost
got a second supply out of me the other day; with her
coaxing ways. She beats all the women I have ever seen
in the course of all my well-spent life. They are babies
compared to her. I am a greenhorn myself, and a fool in
her hands--an old fool. She is unsurpassable in lies."
His lordship's admiration for Becky rose immeasurably
at this proof of her cleverness. Getting the money was
nothing--but getting double the sum she wanted, and
paying nobody--it was a magnificent stroke. And Crawley,
my lord thought--Crawley is not such a fool as he
looks and seems. He has managed the matter cleverly
enough on his side. Nobody would ever have supposed
from his face and demeanour that he knew anything
about this money business; and yet he put her up to it,
and has spent the money, no doubt. In this opinion my
lord, we know, was mistaken, but it influenced a good
deal his behaviour towards Colonel Crawley, whom he
began to treat with even less than that semblance of
respect which he had formerly shown towards that
gentleman. It never entered into the head of Mrs.
Crawley's patron that the little lady might be making a
purse for herself; and, perhaps, if the truth must be told,
he judged of Colonel Crawley by his experience of other
husbands, whom he had known in the course of the long
and well-spent life which had made him acquainted with
a great deal of the weakness of mankind. My lord had
bought so many men during his life that he was surely
to be pardoned for supposing that he had found the price
of this one.

He taxed Becky upon the point on the very first occasion
when he met her alone, and he complimented her,
good-humouredly, on her cleverness in getting more than
the money which she required. Becky was only a little
taken aback. It was not the habit of this dear creature
to tell falsehoods, except when necessity compelled, but
in these great emergencies it was her practice to lie very
freely; and in an instant she was ready with another neat
plausible circumstantial story which she administered to
her patron. The previous statement which she had made
to him was a falsehood--a wicked falsehood--she
owned it. But who had made her tell it? "Ah, my Lord,"
she said, "you don't know all I have to suffer and bear
in silence; you see me gay and happy before you--you
little know what I have to endure when there is no
protector near me. It was my husband, by threats and
the most savage treatment, forced me to ask for that
sum about which I deceived you. It was he who,
foreseeing that questions might be asked regarding the
disposal of the money, forced me to account for it as I
did. He took the money. He told me he had paid Miss
Briggs; I did not want, I did not dare to doubt him.
Pardon the wrong which a desperate man is forced to
commit, and pity a miserable, miserable woman." She
burst into tears as she spoke. Persecuted virtue never
looked more bewitchingly wretched.

They had a long conversation, driving round and round
the Regent's Park in Mrs. Crawley's carriage together,
a conversation of which it is not necessary to repeat
the details, but the upshot of it was that, when Becky
came home, she flew to her dear Briggs with a smiling
face and announced that she had some very good news
for her. Lord Steyne had acted in the noblest and most
generous manner. He was always thinking how and when
he could do good. Now that little Rawdon was gone to
school, a dear companion and friend was no longer
necessary to her. She was grieved beyond measure to part
with Briggs, but her means required that she should
practise every retrenchment, and her sorrow was
mitigated by the idea that her dear Briggs would be far
better provided for by her generous patron than in her
humble home. Mrs. Pilkington, the housekeeper at Gauntly
Hall, was growing exceedingly old, feeble, and rheumatic:
she was not equal to the work of superintending
that vast mansion, and must be on the look out for a
successor. It was a splendid position. The family did not
go to Gauntly once in two years. At other times the
housekeeper was the mistress of the magnificent
mansion--had four covers daily for her table; was visited by
the clergy and the most respectable people of the county
--was the lady of Gauntly, in fact; and the two last
housekeepers before Mrs. Pilkington had married rectors
of Gauntly--but Mrs. P. could not, being the aunt of
the present Rector. The place was not to be hers yet,
but she might go down on a visit to Mrs. Pilkington and
see whether she would like to succeed her.

What words can paint the ecstatic gratitude of Briggs!
All she stipulated for was that little Rawdon should be
allowed to come down and see her at the Hall. Becky
promised this--anything. She ran up to her husband when
he came home and told him the