Chapter L: Contains a Vulgar Incident

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　The Muse, whoever she be, who presides over thisComic History must now descend from the genteel heightsin which she has been soaring and have the goodnessto drop down upon the lowly roof of John Sedley atBrompton, and describe what events are taking placethere. Here, too, in this humble tenement, live care, anddistrust, and dismay. Mrs. Clapp in the kitchen isgrumbling in secret to her husband about the rent, andurging the good fellow to rebel against his old friendand patron and his present lodger. Mrs. Sedley hasceased to visit her landlady in the lower regions now,and indeed is in a position to patronize Mrs. Clappno longer. How can one be condescending to a lady towhom one owes a matter of forty pounds, and who isperpetually throwing out hints for the money? The Irishmaidservant has not altered in the least in her kind andrespectful behaviour; but Mrs. Sedley fancies that sheis growing insolent and ungrateful, and, as the guiltythief who fears each bush an officer, sees threateninginnuendoes and hints of capture in all the girl's speechesand answers. Miss Clapp, grown quite a young womannow, is declared by the soured old lady to be an unbearableand impudent little minx. Why Amelia can be sofond of her, or have her in her room so much, or walkout with her so constantly, Mrs. Sedley cannot conceive.The bitterness of poverty has poisoned the life of theonce cheerful and kindly woman. She is thankless forAmelia's constant and gentle bearing towards her; carpsat her for her efforts at kindness or service; rails at herfor her silly pride in her child and her neglect of herparents. Georgy's house is not a very lively one sinceUncle Jos's annuity has been withdrawn and the littlefamily are almost upon famine diet.

　　Amelia thinks, and thinks, and racks her brain, to findsome means of increasing the small pittance upon whichthe household is starving. Can she give lessons inanything? paint card-racks? do fine work? She finds thatwomen are working hard, and better than she can, fortwopence a day. She buys a couple of begilt Bristolboards at the Fancy Stationer's and paints her very bestupon them--a shepherd with a red waistcoat on one, anda 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 FancyRepository and Brompton Emporium of Fine Arts (ofwhom she bought the screens, vainly hoping that hewould repurchase them when ornamented by her hand)can hardly hide the sneer with which he examines thesefeeble works of art. He looks askance at the lady whowaits in the shop, and ties up the cards again in theirenvelope of whitey-brown paper, and hands them to thepoor widow and Miss Clapp, who had never seen suchbeautiful things in her life, and had been quiteconfident that the man must give at least two guineas forthe screens. They try at other shops in the interior ofLondon, with faint sickening hopes. "Don't want 'em,"says one. "Be off," says another fiercely. Three-and-sixpencehas been spent in vain--the screens retire to MissClapp's bedroom, who persists in thinking them lovely.

　　She writes out a little card in her neatest hand, andafter long thought and labour of composition, in which thepublic is informed that "A Lady who has some time ather disposal, wishes to undertake the education of somelittle 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 gentlemanof the Fine Art Repository, who consents to allowit to lie upon the counter, where it grows dingy andfly-blown. Amelia passes the door wistfully many a time,in hopes that Mr. Brown will have some news to giveher, but he never beckons her in. When she goes tomake little purchases, there is no news for her. Poorsimple lady, tender and weak--how are you to battlewith the struggling violent world?

　　She grows daily more care-worn and sad, fixing uponher child alarmed eyes, whereof the little boy cannotinterpret the expression. She starts up of a night andpeeps into his room stealthily, to see that he is sleepingand not stolen away. She sleeps but little now. Aconstant thought and terror is haunting her. How sheweeps and prays in the long silent nights--how she triesto hide from herself the thought which will return to her,that she ought to part with the boy, that she is the onlybarrier between him and prosperity. She can't, she can't.Not now, at least. Some other day. Oh! it is too hard tothink of and to bear.

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

　　The combat, which we describe in a sentence or two,lasted for many weeks in poor Amelia's heart, duringwhich she had no confidante; indeed, she could neverhave one, as she would not allow to herself thepossibility of yielding, though she was giving way dailybefore the enemy with whom she had to battle. One truthafter another was marshalling itself silently against herand keeping its ground. Poverty and misery for all, wantand 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 onlylove and treasure.

　　At the beginning of the struggle, she had written off aletter of tender supplication to her brother at Calcutta,imploring him not to withdraw the support which he hadgranted to their parents and painting in terms of artlesspathos their lonely and hapless condition. She did notknow the truth of the matter. The payment of Jos'sannuity was still regular, but it was a money-lender in theCity who was receiving it: old Sedley had sold it for asum of money wherewith to prosecute his bootlessschemes. Emmy was calculating eagerly the time thatwould elapse before the letter would arrive and beanswered. She had written down the date in her pocket-book of the day when she dispatched it. To her son'sguardian, the good Major at Madras, she had notcommunicated any of her griefs and perplexities. She hadnot written to him since she wrote to congratulate him onhis approaching marriage. She thought with sickeningdespondency, that that friend--the only one, the onewho 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 inhysteric grief, the father in more than usual gloom, theinmates of the family avoiding each other, each secretlyoppressed with his private unhappiness and notion ofwrong--the father and daughter happened to be leftalone together, and Amelia thought to comfort her fatherby telling him what she had done. She had written toJoseph--an answer must come in three or four months.He was always generous, though careless. He could notrefuse, when he knew how straitened were thecircumstances of his parents.

　　Then the poor old gentleman revealed the whole truthto her--that his son was still paying the annuity, whichhis own imprudence had flung away. He had not daredto tell it sooner. He thought Amelia's ghastly and terrifiedlook, when, with a trembling, miserable voice he madethe confession, conveyed reproaches to him for hisconcealment. "Ah!" said he with quivering lips and turningaway, "you despise your old father now!"

　　"Oh, papal it is not that," Amelia cried out, fallingon his neck and kissing him many times. "You arealways good and kind. You did it for the best. It is notfor the money--it is--my God! my God! have mercyupon me, and give me strength to bear this trial"; andshe kissed him again wildly and went away.

　　Still the father did not know what that explanationmeant, and the burst of anguish with which the poorgirl left him. It was that she was conquered. The sentencewas passed. The child must go from her--to others--toforget 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 theywould watch over the child and wait for him until hecame 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 usedto come back from school, and where she was in thehabit of going on his return to meet the boy. It wasMay, a half-holiday. The leaves were all coming out,the weather was brilliant; the boy came running to herflushed with health, singing, his bundle of school-bookshanging by a thong. There he was. Both her arms wereround him. No, it was impossible. They could not begoing to part. "What is the matter, Mother?" said he;"you look very pale."

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

　　That night Amelia made the boy read the story ofSamuel to her, and how Hannah, his mother, havingweaned him, brought him to Eli the High Priest tominister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitudewhich Hannah sang, and which says, who it is whomaketh poor and maketh rich, and bringeth low andexalteth--how the poor shall be raised up out of thedust, and how, in his own might, no man shall be strong.Then he read how Samuel's mother made him a littlecoat and brought it to him from year to year when shecame up to offer the yearly sacrifice. And then, in hersweet simple way, George's mother made commentariesto the boy upon this affecting story. How Hannah, thoughshe loved her son so much, yet gave him up becauseof her vow. And how she must always have thought ofhim as she sat at home, far away, making the littlecoat; 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 shouldsee her boy and how good and wise he had grown. Thislittle sermon she spoke with a gentle solemn voice, anddry eyes, until she came to the account of theirmeeting--then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tenderheart overflowed, and taking the boy to her breast, sherocked him in her arms and wept silently over him ina sainted agony of tears.

　　Her mind being made up, the widow began to takesuch measures as seemed right to her for advancing theend which she proposed. One day, Miss Osborne, inRussell Square (Amelia had not written the name or numberof the house for ten years--her youth, her early storycame back to her as she wrote the superscription) oneday Miss Osborne got a letter from Amelia which madeher blush very much and look towards her father, sittingglooming in his place at the other end of the table.

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

　　"What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" oldOsborne said, when with a tremulous eager voice MissOsborne read him the letter. "Reg'lar starved out, hey?Ha, ha! I knew she would." He tried to keep his dignityand to read his paper as usual--but he could not followit. 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 studyadjoining, from whence he presently returned with akey. 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 morethan 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 namewritten on the cover; a little dictionary he was wont touse in writing; and the Bible his mother had given him,were on the mantelpiece, with a pair of spurs and adried inkstand covered with the dust of ten years. Ah!since that ink was wet, what days and people had passedaway! The writing-book, still on the table, was blottedwith his hand.

　　Miss Osborne was much affected when she firstentered this room with the servants under her. She sankquite pale on the little bed. "This is blessed news, m'am--indeed, m'am," the housekeeper said; "and the goodold times is returning, m'am. The dear little feller, to besure, m'am; how happy he will be! But some folks inMay Fair, m'am, will owe him a grudge, m'am"; andshe clicked back the bolt which held the window-sashand 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 fornothing. Send her a hundred pound."

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

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

　　"Here, Papa, is some money," Amelia said thatnight, kissing the old man, her father, and putting a billfor a hundred pounds into his hands. "And--and, Mamma,don't be harsh with Georgy. He--he is not going to stopwith us long." She could say nothing more, and walkedaway silently to her room. Let us close it upon herprayers and her sorrow. I think we had best speak littleabout so much love and grief.

　　Miss Osborne came the next day, according to thepromise contained in her note, and saw Amelia. Themeeting between them was friendly. A look and a few wordsfrom Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that, withregard to this woman at least, there need be no fearlest she should take the first place in her son's affection.She was cold, sensible, not unkind. The mother hadnot been so well pleased, perhaps, had the rival beenbetter looking, younger, more affectionate, warmer-hearted. Miss Osborne, on the other hand, thought of oldtimes and memories and could not but be touched withthe poor mother's pitiful situation. She was conquered,and laying down her arms, as it were, she humblysubmitted. That day they arranged together thepreliminaries of the treaty of capitulation.

　　George was kept from school the next day, and sawhis aunt. Amelia left them alone together and went toher room. She was trying the separation--as that poorgentle Lady Jane Grey felt the edge of the axe that wasto come down and sever her slender life. Days werepassed in parleys, visits, preparations. The widow brokethe matter to Georgy with great caution; she looked tosee him very much affected by the intelligence. He wasrather elated than otherwise, and the poor womanturned sadly away. He bragged about the news that dayto the boys at school; told them how he was going tolive with his grandpapa his father's father, not the onewho comes here sometimes; and that he would be veryrich, and have a carriage, and a pony, and go to a muchfiner school, and when he was rich he would buy Leader'spencil-case and pay the tart-woman. The boy was theimage of his father, as his fond mother thought.

　　Indeed I have no heart, on account of our dearAmelia's sake, to go through the story of George's lastdays at home.

　　At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the littlehumble packets containing tokens of love and remembrancewere ready and disposed in the hall long since--George was in his new suit, for which the tailor hadcome previously to measure him. He had sprung up withthe sun and put on the new clothes, his mother hearinghim from the room close by, in which she had beenlying, in speechless grief and watching. Days before shehad been making preparations for the end, purchasinglittle stores for the boy's use, marking his books andlinen, 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 longingfor it. By a thousand eager declarations as to whathe would do, when he went to live with his grandfather,he had shown the poor widow how little the idea ofparting had cast him down. "He would come and seehis mamma often on the pony," he said. "He wouldcome and fetch her in the carriage; they would drivein the park, and she should have everything she wanted."The poor mother was fain to content herself with theseselfish demonstrations of attachment, and tried toconvince herself how sincerely her son loved her. He mustlove her. All children were so: a little anxious for novelty,and--no, not selfish, but self-willed. Her child musthave his enjoyments and ambition in the world. Sheherself, by her own selfishness and imprudent love for himhad denied him his just rights and pleasures hitherto.

　　I know few things more affecting than that timorousdebasement and self-humiliation of a woman. How sheowns that it is she and not the man who is guilty; howshe takes all the faults on her side; how she courts in amanner punishment for the wrongs which she has notcommitted and persists in shielding the real culprit! Itis those who injure women who get the most kindnessfrom them--they are born timid and tyrants andmaltreat those who are humblest before them.

　　So poor Amelia had been getting ready in silent miseryfor her son's departure, and had passed many and manya long solitary hour in making preparations for the end.George stood by his mother, watching her arrangementswithout 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, andpacked with strange neatness and care--and of all thesethings the boy took no note. The child goes away smilingas 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'slife is consummated. No angel has intervened. The childis sacrificed and offered up to fate, and the widow isquite alone.

　　The boy comes to see her often, to be sure. He rideson a pony with a coachman behind him, to the delightof his old grandfather, Sedley, who walks proudly downthe lane by his side. She sees him, but he is not her boyany more. Why, he rides to see the boys at the littleschool, too, and to show off before them his new wealthand splendour. In two days he has adopted a slightlyimperious air and patronizing manner. He was born tocommand, his mother thinks, as his father was beforehim.

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

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