Boys and Girls from Thackeray

By Kate Dickinson Sweetser

Pictures by GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS

1907

PREFACE

William Makepeace Thackeray--the name is dear to all lovers of classicfiction, who have wandered in enchanted lands, following the fortunes ofColonel Newcome, Becky Sharp, Henry Esmond, and a host of other familiarcharacters created by the great novelist. 

To an unusual degree, Thackeray dwells on the childhood and youth of thecharacters he depicts, lingering fondly and in details over the pranksand pastimes, the school and college days of his heroes and heroines, asthough he wished to call especial attention to the interest of thatportion of their career. 

That Thackeray has so emphasised his sketches of juvenile life, warrantsthe presentation of those sketches in this volume and as completestories, without the adult intrigue and plot with which they aresurrounded in the novels from which they are taken. The object in sopresenting them is twofold: namely, to create an interest in Thackeray'swork among young readers to whom he has heretofore been unknown, and toform a companion volume to those already given such a heartywelcome--Boys and Girls from Dickens and George Eliot. 

K. D. S. 

NEW YORK, 1907. 

CONTENTS

HENRY ESMOND

THE VIRGINIANS

BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL

CUFF'S FIGHT WITH "FIGS"

GEORGE OSBORNE--RAWDON CRAWLEY

CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME

ARTHUR PENDENNIS

CAROLINE

BOYS AND GIRLS _from_ THACKERAY

HENRY ESMOND

[Illustration: HENRY ESMOND AND THE CASTLEWOODS. ]

When Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, came to his title, and, presently after, to take possession of his house of Castlewood, CountyHants, in the year 1691, almost the only tenant of the place besides thedomestics was a lad of twelve years of age, of whom no one seemed to takeany note until my Lady Viscountess lighted upon him, going over the housewith the housekeeper on the day of her arrival. The boy was in the roomknown as the book-room, or yellow gallery, where the portraits of thefamily used to hang. 

The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad, lonely little occupantof this gallery busy over his great book, which he laid down when he wasaware that a stranger was at hand. And, knowing who that person must be, the lad stood up and bowed before her, performing a shy obeisance to themistress of his house. 

She stretched out her hand--indeed, when was it that that hand would notstretch out to do an act of kindness, or to protect grief andill-fortune? "And this is our kinsman, I believe, " she said; "and what isyour name, kinsman?"

"My name is Henry Esmond, " said the lad, looking up at her in a sort ofdelight and wonder, for she appeared the most charming object he had everlooked on. Her golden hair was shining in the gold of the sun; hercomplexion was of a dazzling bloom; her lips smiling and her eyes beamingwith a kindness which made Harry Esmond's heart to beat with surprise. 

"His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady, " says Mrs. Worksop, thehousekeeper; and the new Viscountess, after walking down the gallery, came back to the lad, took his hand again, placing her other fair hand onhis head, saying some words to him which were so kind, so sweet that theboy felt as if the touch of a superior being, or angel, smote him down tothe ground, and he kissed the fair protecting hand as he knelt on oneknee. To the very last hour of his life Esmond remembered the lady as shethen spoke and looked: the rings on her fair hands, the very scent of herrobe, the beam of her eyes lighting up with surprise and kindness, herlips blooming in a smile, the sun making a golden halo round her hair. 

As the boy was yet in this attitude of humility, enters behind him aportly gentleman, with a little girl of four years old. The gentlemanburst into a great laugh at the lady and her adorer, with his little, queer figure, his sallow face, and long black hair. The lady blushed andseemed to deprecate his ridicule by a look of appeal to her husband, forit was my Lord Viscount who now arrived, and whom the lad knew, havingonce before seen him in the late lord's lifetime. 

"So this is the little priest!" says my lord, who knew for what callingthe lad was intended, and adding: "Welcome, kinsman. "

"He is saying his prayers to mamma, " says the little girl, and my lordburst out into another great laugh at this, and kinsman Harry looked verysilly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches in reply, but 'twas monthsafterwards when he thought of this adventure; as it was, he had never aword in answer. 

"_Le pauvre enfant, il n'a que nous_, " says the lady, looking to herlord; and the boy, who understood her, though doubtless she thoughtotherwise, thanked her with all his heart for her kind speech. 

"And he shan't want for friends here, " says my lord in a kind voice. "Shall he, little Trix?"

The little girl, whose name was Beatrix, and whom her papa called by thisdiminutive, looked at Henry Esmond solemnly with a pair of large eyes, and then a smile shone over her face, which was as beautiful as that of acherub, and she came up and put out a little hand to him. A keen anddelightful pang of gratitude, happiness, affection filled the orphanchild's heart as he received these tokens of friendliness and kindness. But an hour since, he had felt quite alone in the world; when he heardthe great peal of bells from Castlewood church ringing to welcome thearrival of the new lord and lady it had rung only terror and anxiety tohim, for he knew not how the new owner would deal with him; and those towhom he formerly looked for protection were forgotten or dead. Pride anddoubt, too, had kept him within doors, when the Vicar and the people ofthe village, and the servants of the house, had gone out to welcome myLord Castlewood--for Henry Esmond was no servant, though a dependent; norelative, though he bore the name and inherited the blood of the house;and in the midst of the noise and acclamations attending the arrival ofthe new lord, for whom a feast was got ready, and guns were fired, andtenants and domestics huzzahed when his carriage rolled into thecourt-yard of the Hall, no one took any notice of young Henry Esmond, whosat alone in the book-room until his new friends found him. 

When my lord and lady were going away from the book-room, the littlegirl, still holding him by the hand, bade him come too. 

"Thou wilt always forsake an old friend for a new one, Trix, " says herfather good-naturedly, and went into the gallery, giving an arm to hislady. They passed thence through the music-gallery, long sincedismantled, and Queen Elizabeth's rooms, in the clock-tower, and out intothe terrace, where was a fine prospect of sunset and the great darklingwoods with a cloud of rooks returning, and the plain and river withCastlewood village beyond, and purple hills beautiful to look at; and thelittle heir of Castlewood, a child of two years old, was already here onthe terrace in his nurse's arms, from whom he ran across the grassinstantly he perceived his mother, and came to her. 

"If thou canst not be happy here, " says my lord, looking round at thescene, "thou art hard to please, Rachel. "

"I am happy where you are, " she said, lovingly; and then my lord began todescribe what was before them to his wife, and what indeed little Harryknew better than he--viz. , the history of the house: how by yonder gatethe page ran away with the heiress of Castlewood, by which the estatecame into the present family; how the Roundheads attacked theclock-tower, which my lord's father was slain in defending. "I was buttwo years old then, " says he, "but take forty-six from ninety, and howold shall I be, kinsman Harry?"

"Thirty, " says his wife, with a laugh. 

"A great deal too old for you, Rachel, " answers my lord, looking fondlydown at her. Indeed she seemed to be a girl, and was at that time scarcetwenty years old. 

"You know, Frank, I will do anything to please you, " says she, "and Ipromise you I will grow older every day. "

"You mustn't call papa Frank; you must call him 'my lord, ' now, " saysMiss Beatrix, with a toss of her little head; at which the mother smiled, and the good-natured father laughed, and the little trotting boy laughed, not knowing why--but because he was happy, no doubt--as everyone seemedto be there. 

Presently, however, as the sun was setting, the little heir was senthowling to bed, while the more fortunate little Trix was promised tosit up for supper that night--"and you will come too, kinsman, won'tyou?" she said. 

Harry Esmond blushed: "I--I have supper with Mrs. Worksop, " says he. 

But the new Viscount Castlewood refused to hear of that, and said, "Thoushalt sup with us, Harry, to-night! Shan't refuse a lady, shall he, Trix?"--and Harry enjoyed the unexpected pleasure of an evening meal withthe new lord of Castlewood and his gracious family. 

Later, when Harry got to his little chamber, it was with a heart full ofsurprise and gratitude towards the new friends whom this happy day hadbrought him. The next morning he was up and watching long before thehouse was astir, longing to see that fair lady and her children again;and only fearful lest their welcome of the past night should in any waybe withdrawn or altered. But presently little Beatrix came out into thegarden, and her mother followed, who greeted Harry as kindly as beforeand listened while he told her the histories of the house, which he hadbeen taught in the old lord's time, and to which she listened with greatinterest; and then he told her, with respect to the night before, that heunderstood French and thanked her for her protection. 

"Do you?" says she, with a blush; "then, sir, you shall teach meand Beatrix. "

And she asked him many more questions regarding himself, to which shereceived brief replies, the substance of which was afterward amplifiedinto certain facts concerning the past of the orphan boy, which it iswell to note here and now. 

It seemed that in former days, in a little cottage in the village ofEaling, near to London, for some time had dwelt an old French refugee, byname Mr. Pastoureau, one of those whom the persecution of the Huguenotsby the French king had brought over to England. With this old man lived alittle lad, who went by the name of Henry Thomas, but who was no otherthan Henry Esmond. He remembered to have lived in another place a shorttime before, near to London, too, amongst looms and spinning wheels, anda great deal of psalm-singing and church-going, and a whole colony ofFrenchmen. 

There he had a dear, dear friend, who died, and whom he called Aunt. She used to visit him in his dreams sometimes; and her face, though itwas homely, was a thousand times dearer to him than that of Mrs. Pastoureau, Bon Papa Pastoureau's new wife, who came to live with himafter aunt went away. And there, at Spittlefields, as it used to becalled, lived Uncle George, who was a weaver, too, but used to tellHarry that he was a little gentleman, and that his father was acaptain, and his mother an angel. 

When he said so, Bon Papa used to look up from the loom, where he wasembroidering beautiful silk flowers, and shake his head. He had a littleroom where he always used to preach and sing hymns out of his great oldnose. Little Harry did not like the preaching; he liked better the finestories which aunt used to tell him. Bon Papa's new wife never told himpretty stories; she quarrelled with Uncle George, and he went away. 

After this, Harry's Bon Papa, and his wife and two children of her ownthat she had brought with her, came to live at Ealing. The new wife gaveher children the best of everything, and Harry many a whipping, he knewnot why. So he was very glad when a gentleman dressed in black, onhorseback, with a mounted servant behind him, came to fetch him away fromEaling. The unjust stepmother gave him plenty to eat before he went away, and did not beat him once, but told the children to keep their hands offhim. One was a girl, and Harry never could bear to strike a girl; and theother was a boy, whom he could easily have beat, but he always cried out, when Mrs. Pastoureau came sailing to the rescue with arms like a flail. She only washed Harry's face the day he went away; nor ever so much asonce boxed his ears. She whimpered rather when the gentleman in blackcame for the boy, and pretended to cry; but Harry thought it was only asham, and sprung quite delighted upon the horse upon which the lackeyhelped him. This lackey was a Frenchman; his name was Blaise. The childcould talk to him in his own language perfectly well. He knew it betterthan English, indeed, having lived hitherto among French people, andbeing called the Little Frenchman by other boys on Ealing Green. 

The lackey was very talkative and informed the boy that the gentlemanriding before him was my lord's chaplain, Father Holt; that he was now tobe called Master Harry Esmond; that my Lord Viscount Castlewood was hispatron; that he was to live at the great house of Castlewood, in theprovince of ----shire, where he would see Madame the Viscountess, who wasa grand lady, and that he was to be educated for the priesthood. And so, seated on a cloth before Blaise's saddle, Harry Esmond was brought toLondon, and to a fine square called Covent Garden, near to which hispatron lodged. 

Mr. Holt, the priest, took the child by the hand and brought him to thisgrand languid nobleman, who sat in a great cap and floweredmorning-gown, sucking oranges. He patted Harry on the head and gave himan orange, and directed Blaise to take him out for a holiday; and outfor a holiday the boy and the valet went. Harry went jumping along; hewas glad enough to go. 

He remembered to his life's end the delights of those days. He was takento see a play, in a house a thousand times greater and finer than thebooth at Ealing Fair; and on the next happy day they took water on theriver, and Harry saw London Bridge, with the houses and book: sellers'shops on it, looking like a street, and the tower of London, with theArmour, and the great lions and bears in the moat--all under company ofMonsieur Blaise. 

Presently, of an early morning, all the party set forth for the country, and all along the road the Frenchman told little Harry stories ofbrigands, which made the child's hair stand on end, and terrified him; sothat at the great gloomy inn on the road where they lay, he besought tobe allowed to sleep in a room with one of the servants, and Father Holttook pity on him and gave the child a little bed in his chamber. 

His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this gentleman in hisfavour, for next day Mr. Holt said Harry should ride behind him, and notwith the French lackey; and all along the journey put a thousandquestions to the child--as to his foster-brother and relations at Ealing;what his old grandfather had taught him; what languages he knew; whetherhe could read and write, and sing, and so forth. And Mr. Holt found thatHarry could read and write, and possessed the two languages of French andEnglish very well. The lad so pleased the gentleman by his talk that theyhad him to dine with them at the inn, and encouraged him in his prattle;and Monsieur Blaise, with whom he rode and dined the day before, waitedupon him now. 

At length, on the third day, at evening, they came to a village on thegreen with elms around it, and the people there all took off their hats, and made curtsies to my Lord Viscount, who bowed to them all languidly;and there was one portly person that wore a cassock and a broad-leafedhat, who bowed lower than anyone, and with this one both my lord and Mr. Holt had a few words. 

"This, Harry, is Castlewood church, " says Mr. Holt, "and this is thepillar thereof, learned Dr. Tusher. Take off your hat, sirrah, and saluteDr. Tusher!"

"Come up to supper, Doctor, " says my lord; at which the Doctor madeanother low bow, and the party moved on towards a grand house that wasbefore them, with many grey towers, and vanes on them, and windowsflaming in the sunshine, and they passed under an arch into a courtyard, with a fountain in the centre, where many men came and held my lord'sstirrup as he descended, and paid great respect to Mr. Holt likewise. 

Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both descended from theirhorses, Mr. Holt led him across the court, to rooms on a level with theground, one of which Father Holt said was to be the boy's chamber, theother on the other side of the passage being the Father's own. As soonas the little man's face was washed, and the Father's own dress arranged, Harry's guide took him once more to the door by which my lord had enteredthe hall, and up a stair, and through an ante-room to my lady'sdrawing-room--an apartment than which Harry thought he had never seenanything more grand--no, not in the Tower of London, which he had justvisited. Indeed, the chamber was richly ornamented in the manner of QueenElizabeth's time, with great stained windows at either end, and hangingsof tapestry, which the sun shining through the coloured glass painted ofa thousand hues; and here in state, by the fire, sat a lady to whom thepriest took up Harry, who was indeed amazed by her appearance. 

My Lady Viscountess's face was daubed with white and red up to the eyes, to which the paint gave an unearthly glare. She had a tower of lace onher head, under which was a bush of black curls--borrowed curls--so thatno wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first presented toher, the kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that solemnintroduction, and he stared at her with eyes almost as great as her own, as he had stared at the player woman who acted the wicked tragedy-queen, when the players came down to Ealing Fair. She sat in a great chair bythe fire-corner; in her lap was a spaniel-dog that barked furiously; ona little table by her was her ladyship's snuff-box and her sugar-plumbox. She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame-colouredbrocade. She had as many rings on her fingers as the old woman ofBanbury Cross; and pretty, small feet which she was fond of showing, with great gold clocks to her stockings, and white slippers with redheels; and an odour of musk was shaken out of her garments whenever shemoved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoise-shell stick, littleFury, the dog, barking at her heels, and Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife, by her side. 

"I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honour, Master Henry Esmond, " Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of comicalhumility. "Make a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur; and then anotherlittle bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher. "

Upon my lady the boy's whole attention was for a time directed. He couldnot keep his great eyes from her. Since the Empress of Ealing, he hadseen nothing so awful. 

"Does my appearance please you, little page?" asked the lady. 

"He would be very hard to please if it didn't, " cried Madame Tusher. 

"Have done, you silly Maria, " said Lady Castlewood, adding, "Come andkiss my hand, child"; and little Harry Esmond took and dutifully kissedthe lean old hand, upon the gnarled knuckles of which there glittered ahundred rings. 

"To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happy!" cried Mrs. Tusher; on which my lady cried out, "Go, you foolish Tusher!" and tappingher with her great fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it. Fury arose and barked furiously at Tusher; and Father Holt looked on atthis queer scene, with arch, grave glances. 

The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the lady on whom thisartless flattery was bestowed, for, having gone down on his knee (asFather Holt had directed him, and the fashion then was) and performed hisobeisance, she asked, "Page Esmond, my groom of the chamber will informyou what your duties are, when you wait upon my lord and me; and goodFather Holt will instruct you as becomes a gentleman of our name. Youwill pay him obedience in everything, and I pray you may grow to be aslearned and as good as your tutor. "

Harry then put his small hand into the Father's as he walked away fromhis first presentation to his mistress, and asked many questions in hisartless, childish way. "Who is that other woman?" he asked. "She is fatand round; she is more pretty than my Lady Castlewood. "

"She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castlewood. She has a son ofyour age, but bigger than you. "

"Why does she like so to kiss my lady's hand? It is not good to kiss. "

"Tastes are different, little man. Madame Tusher is attached to my lady, having been her waiting-woman before she was married, in the old lord'stime. She married Dr. Tusher, the chaplain. The English household divinesoften marry the waiting-women. "

"You will not marry the French woman, will you? I saw her laughing withBlaise in the buttery. "

"I belong to a church that is older and better than the English church, "Mr. Holt said (making a sign, whereof Esmond did not then understand themeaning, across his breast and forehead); "in our church the clergy donot marry. You will understand these things better soon. "

"Was not Saint Peter the head of your church?--Dr. Rabbits of Ealingtold us so. "

The Father said, "Yes, he was. "

"But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sunday that hiswife's mother lay sick of a fever. " On which the Father again laughed, and said he would understand this too better soon, and talked of otherthings, and took away Harry Esmond, and showed him the great old housewhich he had come to inhabit. 

It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in which wererooks' nests, where the birds at morning and returning home at eveningmade a great cawing. At the foot of a hill was a river, with a steepancient bridge crossing it; and beyond that a large pleasant green flat, where the village of Castlewood stood, with the church in the midst, theparsonage hard by it, the inn with the blacksmith's forge beside it, andthe sign of the "Three Castles" on the elm. The London road stretchedaway towards the rising sun, and to the west were swelling hills andpeaks, behind which many a time Harry Esmond saw the same sun setting inafter years. 

The Hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, whereof one only, thefountain-court, was now inhabited, the other having been battered down inthe Cromwellian wars. In the fountain-court, still in good repair, wasthe great hall, near to the kitchen and butteries. A dozen ofliving-rooms looked to the north, and communicated with the little chapelthat faced eastwards, and the buildings stretching from that to the maingate, and with the hall (which looked to the west) into the court, nowdismantled. This court had been the more magnificent of the two until theProtector's cannon tore down one side of it before the place was takenand stormed. The besiegers entered at the terrace under the clock-tower, slaying every man of the garrison, and at their head, my lord's brother, Francis Esmond. 

The Restoration did not bring enough money to the Lord Castlewood torestore this ruined part of his house, where were the morning parlours, and above them the long music-gallery. Before this stretched thegarden-terrace, where the flowers grew again which the boots of theRoundheads had trodden in their assault, and which was restored withoutmuch cost, and only a little care, by both ladies who succeeded thesecond viscount in the government of this mansion. Round theterrace-garden was a low wall with a wicket leading to a wooded heightbeyond, that is called Cromwell's Battery to this day. 

Young Harry Esmond soon learned the domestic part of his duty, whichwas easy enough, from the groom of her ladyship's chamber: serving theCountess, as the custom commonly was in his boyhood, as page, waitingat her chair, bringing her scented water and the silver basin afterdinner--sitting on her carriage-step on state occasions, or on publicdays introducing her company to her. This was chiefly of the Catholicgentry, of whom there were a pretty many in the country andneighbouring city, and who rode not seldom to Castlewood to partake ofthe hospitalities there. In the second year of their residence, thecompany seemed especially to increase. My lord and my lady were seldomwithout visitors. 

Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private visitors, whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had no difficulty in recognising aspriests of the Father's order, whatever their dresses (and theyadopted all sorts) might be. They were closeted with the Fatherconstantly, and often came and rode away without paying their respectsto my lord and lady. 

Father Holt began speedily to be so much occupied with these meetings asrather to neglect the education of the little lad who so gladly puthimself under the kind priest's orders. At first they read much andregularly, both in Latin and French; the Father not neglecting inanything to impress his faith upon his pupil, but not forcing himviolently, and treating him with a delicacy and kindness which surprisedand attached the child, always more easily won by these methods than byany severe exercise of authority. And his delight in their walks was totell Harry of the glories of his order, of the Jesuits, an order foundedby Ignatius Loyola, whose members were intimately associated withintrigues of church and state. He told Harry of its martyrs and heroes, of its brethren converting the heathen by myriads, traversing the desert, facing the stake, ruling the courts and councils, or braving the torturesof kings; so that Henry Esmond thought that to belong to the Jesuits wasthe bravest end of ambition; the greatest career here, and in heaven thesurest reward; and began to long for the day, not only when he shouldenter into the one church and receive his first communion, but when hemight join that wonderful brotherhood, which numbered the wisest, thebravest, the highest born, the most eloquent of men among its members. Father Holt bade him keep his views secret, and to hide them as a greattreasure which would escape him if it was revealed; and, proud of thisconfidence and secret vested in him, the lad became fondly attached tothe master who initiated him into a mystery so wonderful and awful. Andwhen little Tom Tusher, his neighbour, came from school for his holiday, and said how he, too; like Harry, was to be bred up for an Englishpriest, and would get a college scholarship and fellowship from hisschool, and then a good living--it tasked young Harry Esmond's powers ofreticence not to say to his young companion, "Church! priesthood! fatliving! My dear Tommy, do you call yours a church and a priesthood? Whatis a fat living compared to converting a hundred thousand heathens by asingle sermon? What is a scholarship at Trinity by the side of a crown ofmartyrdom, with angels awaiting you as your head is taken off? Could yourmaster at school sail over the Thames on his gown? Have you statues inyour church that can bleed, speak, walk, and cry? My good Tommy, in dearFather Holt's church these things take place every day. You know SaintPhilip of the Willows appeared to Lord Castlewood, and caused him to turnto the one true church. No saints ever come to you. " And Harry Esmond, because of his promise to Father Holt, hiding away these treasures offaith from T. Tusher, delivered himself of them nevertheless simply toFather Holt; who stroked his head, smiled at him with his inscrutablelook, and told him that he did well to meditate on these great things, and not to talk of them except under direction. 

Had time enough been given, and his childish inclinations been properlynurtured, Harry Esmond had been a Jesuit priest ere he was a dozen yearsolder, and might have finished his days a martyr in China or a victim onTower Hill; for, in the few months they spent together at Castlewood, Mr. Holt obtained an entire mastery over the boy's intellect and affections, and had brought him to think, as indeed Father Holt thought, with all hisheart too, that no life was so noble, no death so desirable, as thatwhich many brethren of his famous order were ready to undergo. By love, by a brightness of wit and good humour that charmed all, by an authoritywhich he knew how to assume, by a mystery and silence about him whichincreased the child's reverence for him, he won Harry's absolute fealty, and would have kept it, doubtless, if schemes greater and more importantthan a poor little boy's admission into orders had not called him away. 

After being at home for a few months in tranquillity, my Lord Castlewoodand Lady Isabella left the country for London, taking Father Holt withthem: and his little pupil scarce ever shed more bitter tears in his lifethan he did for nights after the first parting with his dear friend, ashe lay in the lonely chamber next to that which the Father used tooccupy. He and a few domestics were left as the only tenants of the greathouse: and, though Harry sedulously did all the tasks which the Fatherset him, he had many hours unoccupied, and read in the library, andbewildered his little brain with the great books he found there. 

After a while, however, the little lad grew accustomed to the lonelinessof the place; and in after days remembered this part of his life as aperiod not unhappy. When the family was at London the whole of theestablishment travelled thither with the exception of the porter and hiswife and children. These had their lodging in the gate-house hard by. With a door into the court. That with a window looking out on the greenwas the Chaplain's room; and next to this was a small chamber whereFather Holt had his books, and Harry Esmond his sleeping-closet. The sideof the house facing the east had escaped the guns of the Cromwellians, whose battery was on the height facing the western court; so that thiseastern end bore few marks of demolition, save in the chapel, where thepainted windows surviving Edward the Sixth had been broke by theCommonwealthmen. When Father Holt was at Castlewood little Harry Esmondacted as his familiar little servitor, beating his clothes, folding hisvestments, fetching his water from the well long before daylight, readyto run anywhere for the service of his beloved priest. When the Fatherwas away, he locked his private chamber; but the room where the bookswere was left to little Harry. 

Great public events were happening at this time, of which the simpleyoung page took little count. But one day, before the family went toLondon, riding into the neighbouring town on the step of my lady'scoach, his lordship and she and Father Holt being inside, a great mobof people came hooting and jeering round the coach, bawling out, "TheBishops forever!" "Down with the Pope!" "No Popery! no Popery!" so thatmy lord began to laugh, my lady's eyes to roll with anger, for she wasas bold as a lioness, and feared nobody; whilst Mr. Holt, as Esmond sawfrom his place on the step, sank back with rather an alarmed face, crying out to her ladyship, "For God's sake, madam, do not speak or lookout of window; sit still. " But she did not obey this prudent injunctionof the Father; she thrust her head out of the coach window, and screamedout to the coachman, "Flog your way through them, the brutes, James, anduse your whip!"

James the coachman was more afraid of his mistress than of the mob, probably, for he whipped on his horses as he was bidden, and the post-boythat rode with the first pair gave a cut of his thong over the shouldersof one fellow who put his hand out towards the leading horse's rein. 

It was a market-day, and the country-people were all assembled withtheir baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things; the postilion had nosooner lashed the man who would have taken hold of his horse, but agreat cabbage came whirling like a bombshell into the carriage, atwhich my lord laughed more, for it knocked my lady's fan out of herhand, and plumped into Father Holt's stomach. Then came a shower ofcarrots and potatoes. 

The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a fellow in thecrowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the eye, at which the poorlittle wretch set up a shout The man, a great big saddler's apprentice ofthe town, laughed, and stooped to pick up another potato. The crowd hadgathered quite between the horses and the inn door by this time, and thecoach was brought to a dead standstill. My lord jumped as briskly as aboy out of the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harrybehind it; had hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, and thenext moment the brute's heels were in the air, and he fell on the stoneswith a thump. 

"You hulking coward!" says he, "you pack of screaming blackguards! howdare you attack children, and insult women? Fling another shot at thatcarriage, you sneaking pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord I'll send myrapier through you!"

Some of the mob cried, "Huzzah, my Lord!" for they knew him, and thesaddler's man was a known bruiser, near twice as big as my Lord Viscount. 

"Make way there, " says he (he spoke with a great air of authority). "Makeway, and let her ladyship's carriage pass. "

The men actually did make way, and the horses went on, my lord walkingafter them with his hat on his head. 

This mob was one of many thousands that were going about the country atthat time, huzzahing for the acquittal of seven bishops who had beentried just then, and about whom little Harry Esmond knew scarce anything. The party from Castlewood were on their way to Hexton, where there was agreat meeting of the gentry. My lord's people had their new liveries onand Harry a little suit of blue and silver, which he wore upon occasionsof state; and the gentlefolks came round and talked to my lord: and ajudge in a red gown, who seemed a very great personage, especiallycomplimented him and my lady, who was mighty grand. Harry remembers hertrain borne up by her gentlewoman. There was an assembly and ball at thegreat room at the inn, and other young gentlemen of the county familieslooked on as he did. One of them jeered him for his black eye, which wasswelled by the potato, and another called him a cruel name, on which heand Harry fell to fisticuffs. My lord's cousin, Colonel Esmond ofWalcote, was there, and separated the two lads--a great, tall gentleman, with a handsome, good-natured face. 

Very soon after this my lord and lady went to London with Mr. Holt, leaving the page behind them. The little man had the great house ofCastlewood to himself; or between him and the housekeeper, Mrs. Worksop, an old lady who was a kinswoman of the family in some distant way, and aProtestant, but a staunch Tory and kings-man, as all the Esmonds were. Harry used to go to school to Dr. Tusher when he was at home, though theDoctor was much occupied too. There was a great stir and commotioneverywhere, even in the little quiet village of Castlewood, whither aparty of people came from the town, who would have broken CastlewoodChapel windows, but the village people turned out, and even oldSievewright, the republican blacksmith, along with them; for my lady, though she was a Papist, and had many odd ways, was kind to the tenantry, and there was always plenty of protectors for Castlewood inmates in anysort of invasion. 

One day at dawn, not having been able to sleep for thinking of some linesfor eels which he had placed the night before, the lad was lying in hislittle bed waiting for the hour when he and John Lockwood, the porter'sson, might go to the pond and see what fortune had brought them. It mighthave been four o'clock when he heard the door of Father Holt's chamberopen. Harry jumped up, thinking for certain it was a robber, or hopingperhaps for a ghost, and, flinging open his own door, saw a light insideFather Holt's room, and a figure standing in the doorway, in the midst ofa great smoke which issued from the room. 

"Who's there?" cried out the boy. 

"_Silentium!_" whispered the other; "'tis I, my boy!" holding his handout, and Harry recognised Father Holt. A curtain was over the windowthat looked to the court, and he saw that the smoke came from a greatflame of papers burning in a bowl when he entered the Chaplain's room. After giving a hasty greeting and blessing to the lad, who was charmedto see his tutor, the Father continued the burning of his papers, drawing them from a cupboard over the mantelpiece wall, which Harry hadnever seen before. 

Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at once on thishole. "That is right, Harry, " he said; "see all and say nothing. You arefaithful, I know. "

"I know I would go to the stake for you, " said Harry. 

"I don't want your head, " said the Father, patting it kindly; "all youhave to do is to hold your tongue. Let us burn these papers, and saynothing to anybody. Should you like to read them?"

Harry Esmond blushed, and held down his head; he _had_ looked, butwithout thinking, at the paper before him; but though he had seen itbefore, he could not understand a word of it. They burned the papersuntil scarce any traces of them remained. 

Harry had been accustomed to seeing Father Holt in more dresses than one;it not being safe, or worth the danger, for Popish priests to wear theirproper dress; so he was in no wise astonished that the priest should nowappear before him in a riding-dress, with large buff leather boots, and afeather to his hat, plain, but such as gentlemen wore. 

"You know the secret of the cupboard, " said he, laughing, "and must beprepared for other mysteries"; and he opened a wardrobe, which heusually kept locked, but from which he now took out two or three dressesand wigs of different colours, and a couple of swords, a military coatand cloak, and a farmer's smock, and placed them in the large hole overthe mantelpiece from which the papers had been taken. 

"If they miss the cupboard, " he said, "they will not find these; if theyfind them, they'll tell no tales, except that Father Holt wore moresuits of clothes than one. All Jesuits do. You know what deceivers weare, Harry. "

Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about to leave him;but "No, " the priest said, "I may very likely come back with my lord in afew days. We are to be tolerated; we are not to be persecuted. But theymay take a fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood ere our return; and, asgentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they might choose to examine mypapers, which concern nobody--at least not them. " And to this day, whether the papers in cipher related to politics, or to the affairs ofthat mysterious society whereof Father Holt was a member, his pupil, Harry Esmond, remains in entire ignorance. 

The rest of his goods Father Holt left untouched on his shelves and inhis cupboard, taking down--with a laugh, however--and flinging into thebrazier, where he only half burned them, some theological treatises whichhe had been writing. "And now, " said he, "Henry, my son, you may testify, with a safe conscience, that you saw me burning Latin sermons the lasttime I was here before I went away to London; and it will be daybreakdirectly, and I must be away before Lockwood is stirring. "

"Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?" Esmond asked. Holt laughed; hewas never more gay or good-humoured than when in the midst of actionor danger. 

"Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind you, " he said; "nor wouldyou, you little wretch! had you slept better. You must forget that I havebeen here; and now farewell. Close the door, and go to your own room, anddon't come out till--stay, why should you not know one secret more? Iknow you will never betray me. "

In the Chaplain's room were two windows, the one looking into the courtfacing westwards to the fountain, the other a small casement stronglybarred, and looking onto the green in front of the Hall. This window wastoo high to reach from the ground; but, mounting on a buffet which stoodbeneath it, Father Holt showed Harry how, by pressing on the base of thewindow, the whole framework descended into a cavity worked below, fromwhich it could be restored to its usual place from without, a broken panebeing purposely open to admit the hand which was to work upon the springof the machine. 

"When I am gone, " Father Holt said, "you may push away the buffet, sothat no one may fancy that an exit has been made that way; lock the door;place the key--where shall we put the key?--under 'Chrysostom' on thebook shelf; and if any ask for it, say I keep it there, and told youwhere to find it, if you had need to go to my room. The descent is easydown the wall into the ditch; and so once more farewell, until I see theeagain, my dear son. "

And with this the intrepid Father mounted the buffet with great agilityand briskness, stepped across the window, lifting up the bars andframework again from the other side, and only leaving room for HarryEsmond to stand on tiptoe and kiss his hand before the casement closed, the bars fixing as firmly as ever, seemingly, in the stone arch overhead. 

Esmond, young as he was, would have died sooner than betray his friendand master, as Mr. Holt well knew; so, then, when Holt was gone, and toldHarry not to see him, it was as if he had never been. And he had thisanswer pat when he came to be questioned a few days later. 

The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as young Esmond learned fromseeing Dr. Tusher in his best cassock, with a great orange cockade in hisbroad-leafed hat, and Nahun, his clerk, ornamented with a likedecoration. The Doctor was walking up and down in front of his parsonagewhen little Esmond saw him and heard him say he was going to Salisbury topay his duty to his Highness the Prince. The village people had orangecockades too, and his friend, the blacksmith's laughing daughter, pinnedone into Harry's old hat, which he tore out indignantly when they badehim to cry "God save the Prince of Orange and the Protestant religion!"But the people only laughed, for they liked the boy in the village, wherehis solitary condition moved the general pity, and where he foundfriendly welcomes and faces in many houses. 

It was while Dr. Tusher was away at Salisbury that there came a troop ofdragoons with orange scarfs, and quartered in Castlewood, and some ofthem came up to the Hall, where they took possession, robbing nothing, however, beyond the hen-house and the beer-cellar: and only insistingupon going through the house and looking for papers. The first room theyasked to look at was Father Holt's room, where they opened the drawersand cupboards, and tossed over the papers and clothes, but found nothingexcept his books and clothes, and the vestments in a box by themselves, with which the dragoons made merry, to Harry Esmond's horror. To thequestions which the gentlemen put to Harry, he replied that Father Holtwas a very kind man to him, and a very learned man, and Harry supposedwould tell him none of his secrets if he had any. He was about elevenyears old at that time, and looked as innocent as boys of his age. 

A kingdom was changing hands whilst my lord and lady were away. KingJames was flying; the Dutchmen were coming; awful stories about them andthe Prince of Orange Mrs. Worksop used to tell to the idle little page, who enjoyed the exciting narratives. The family were away more than sixmonths, and when they returned they were in the deepest state ofdejection, for King James had been banished, the Prince of Orange was onthe throne, and the direst persecutions of those of the Catholic faithwere apprehended by my lady, who said that she did not believe there wasa word of truth in the promises of toleration that Dutch monster made, ora single word the perjured wretch said. My lord and lady being loyalfollowers of the banished king, were in a manner prisoners in their ownhouse, so her ladyship gave the little page to know, who was by this timegrowing of an age to understand what was passing about him, and somethingof the character of the people he lived with. 

Father Holt came to the Hall constantly, but officiated no longer openlyas chaplain. Strangers, military and ecclesiastic--Harry knew the latter, though they came in all sorts of disguises--were continually arriving anddeparting. My lord made long absences and sudden reappearances, usingsometimes the secret window in Father Holt's room, though how often Harrycould not tell. He stoutly kept his promise to the Father of not prying, and if at midnight from his little room he heard noises of personsstirring in the next chamber, he turned round to the wall, and hid hiscuriosity under his pillow until he fell asleep. Of course, he could nothelp remarking that the priest's journeys were constant, andunderstanding by a hundred signs that some active though secret businessemployed him. What this was may pretty well be guessed by what soonhappened to my lord. 

No garrison or watch was put into Castlewood when my lord came back, buta Guard was in the village; and one or other of them was always on thegreen keeping a lookout on the great gate, and those who went out and in. Lockwood said that at night especially every person who came in or wentout was watched by the outlying sentries. It was lucky that there was agate which their Worships knew nothing about. My lord and Father Holtmust have made constant journeys at night: once or twice little Harryacted as their messenger and discreet aide-de-camp. He remembers he wasbidden to go into the village with his fishing-rod, enter certain houses, ask for a drink of water, and tell the good man, "There would be ahorse-market at Newbury next Thursday, " and so carry the same message onto the next house on his list. 

He did not know what the message meant at the time, nor what washappening, which may as well, however, for clearness' sake, be explainedhere. The Prince of Orange being gone to Ireland, where the King wasready to meet him with a great army, it was determined that a greatrising of his Majesty's party should take place in this country; and mylord was to head the force in the Castlewood's county. Of late he hadtaken a greater lead in affairs than before, having the indefatigable Mr. Holt at his elbow, who was the most considerable person in that part ofthe county for the affairs of the King. 

It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Greys and Dragoons, thenquartered at Newbury, should declare for the King on a certain day, whenlikewise the gentry loyal to his Majesty's cause were to come in withtheir tenants and adherents to Newbury, march upon the Dutch troops atReading under Ginckel; and, those overthrown, and their indomitablelittle master away in Ireland, it was thought that their side might moveon London itself, and a confident victory was predicted for the King. 

While these great matters were in agitation, one day, it must have beenabout the month of July, 1600, my lord, in a great horseman's coat, underwhich Harry could see the shining of a steel breastplate he had on, called the boy to him, and kissed him, and bade God bless him in such anaffectionate way as he never had used before. Father Holt blessed himtoo, and then they took leave of my Lady Viscountess, who came weepingfrom her apartment. 

"My lord, God speed you!" she said, stepping up and embracing my lord ina grand manner. "Mr. Holt, I ask your blessing, " and she knelt down forthat, whilst Mrs. Tusher tossed her head up. 

Mr. Holt gave the same benediction to the little page, who went down andheld my lord's stirrups for him to mount--there were two servants waitingthere, too--and they rode out of Castlewood gate. 

As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in scarlet ride uptouching his hat, and address my lord. 

The party stopped, and came to some discussion, which presently ended, mylord putting his horse into a canter after taking off his hat to theofficer, who rode alongside him step for step, the trooper accompanyinghim falling back, and riding with my lord's two men. They cantered overthe green, and behind the elms, and so they disappeared. 

That evening those left behind had a great panic, the cow-boy coming atmilking-time riding one of the Castlewood horses, which he had foundgrazing at the outer park-wall. It was quite in the grey of the morningwhen the porter's bell rang, and old Lockwood let him in. He had gonewith him in the morning, and returned with a melancholy story. Theofficer who rode up to my lord had, it appeared, said to him that it washis duty to inform his lordship that he was not under arrest, but underwatch, and to request him not to ride abroad that day. 

My lord replied that riding was good for his health, that if the Captainchose to accompany him he was welcome; and it was then that he made abow, and they cantered away together. 

When he came on to Wansey Down, my lord all of a sudden pulled up, andthe party came to a halt at the cross-way. 

"Sir, " says he to the officer, "we are four to two; will you be so kindas to take that road, and leave me go mine?"

"Your road is mine, my lord, " says the officer. 

"Then--" says my lord; but he had no time to say more, for the officer, drawing a pistol, snapped it at his lordship; and at the same momentFather Holt, drawing a pistol, shot the officer through the head. It wasdone, and the man dead in an instant of time. The orderly, gazing at theofficer, looked scared for a moment, and galloped away for his life. 

"Fire! Fire!" cries out Father Holt, sending another shot after thetrooper, but the two servants were too much surprised to use theirpieces, and my lord calling to them to hold their hands, the fellow gotaway. My lord's party rode on; shortly after midday heard firing, thenmet a horseman who told them that the regiments declared an hour toosoon. General Ginckel was down upon them, and the whole thing was at anend. "We've shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly escape, " saysmy lord. "Blaise, " says Mr. Holt, writing two lines on his table-book, one for my lady and one for Harry, "you must go back to Castlewood anddeliver these, " and Blaise went back and gave Harry the two papers. Heread that to himself, which only said, "Burn the papers in the cupboard;burn this. You know nothing about anything. " Harry read this, ranupstairs to his mistress's apartment, where her gentlewoman slept near tothe door, made her bring a light and wake my lady, into whose hands hegave the other paper. 

As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped back to theChaplain's room, opened the secret cupboard over the fireplace, burnedall the papers in it, and, as he had seen the priest do before, took downone of his reverence's manuscript sermons, and half burnt that in thebrazier. By the time the papers were quite destroyed it was daylight. Harry ran back to his mistress again. Her gentlewoman ushered him againinto her ladyship's chamber; she told him to bid the coach be got ready, and that she would ride away anon. 

But the mysteries of her ladyship's toilet were as awfully long on thisday as on any other, and, long after the coach was ready, my lady wasstill attiring herself. And just as the Viscountess stepped forth fromher room, ready for her departure, young John Lockwood came running upfrom the village with news that a lawyer, three officers, and twenty orfour-and-twenty soldiers were marching thence upon the house. John hadbut two minutes the start of them, and, ere he had well told his story, the troop rode into the court-yard. 

Her gentlewoman, Victoire, persuaded her that her prudent course was, asshe could not fly, to receive the troops as though she suspected nothing, and that her chamber was the best place wherein to await them. So herblack Japan casket, which Harry was to carry to the coach, was taken backto her ladyship's chamber, whither the maid and mistress retired. Victoire came out presently, bidding the page to say her ladyship wasill, confined to her bed with the rheumatism. 

By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood, and, preceded by theircommander and a lawyer, were conducted to the stair leading up to thepart of the house which my lord and lady inhabited. The Captain and thelawyer came through the ante-room to the tapestry parlour, where now wasnobody but young Harry Esmond, the page. 

"Tell your mistress, little man, " says the Captain kindly, "that we mustspeak to her. "

"My mistress is ill a-bed, " said the page. 

"What complaint has she?" asked the Captain. 

The boy said, "The rheumatism!"

"Rheumatism! that's a bad complaint, " continues the good-natured Captain;"and the coach is in the yard to fetch the doctor, I suppose?"

"I don't know, " says the boy. 

"And how long has her ladyship been ill?"

"I don't know, " says the boy. 

"When did my lord go away?"

"Yesterday night. "

"With Father Holt?"

"With Mr. Holt. "

"And which way did they travel?" asks the lawyer. 

"They travelled without me, " says the page. 

"We must see Lady Castlewood. "

"I have orders that nobody goes in to her ladyship--she is sick, " saysthe page; but at this moment her maid came out. "Hush!" says she; and, asif not knowing that any one was near, "What's this noise?" says she. "Isthis gentleman the doctor?"

"Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood, " says the lawyer, pushing by. 

The curtains of her ladyship's room were down, and the chamber dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her head, and propped up byher pillows. 

"Is that the doctor?" she said. 

"There is no use with this deception, madam, " Captain Westbury said (forso he was named). "My duty is to arrest the person of Thomas, Viscount ofCastlewood, of Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood, and Henry Holt, knownunder various other names, a Jesuit priest, who officiated as chaplainhere in the late king's time, and is now at the head of the conspiracywhich was about to break out in this country against the authority oftheir Majesties King William and Queen Mary--and my orders are to searchthe house for such papers or traces of the conspiracy as may be foundhere. Your ladyship will please give me your keys, and it will be as wellfor yourself that you should help us, in every way, in our search. "

"You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot move, " said thelady, looking uncommonly ghastly as she sat up in her bed. 

"I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, so that yourladyship, in case you should wish to rise, may have an arm to lean on, "Captain Westbury said. "Your woman will show me where I am to look;" andMadame Victoire, chatting in her half-French and half-English jargon, opened while the Captain examined one drawer after another; but, as HarryEsmond thought, rather carelessly, as if he was only conducting theexamination for form's sake. 

Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down, and, with apiercing shriek, cried, "_Non, jamais, monsieur l'officier! Jamais!_ Iwill rather die than let you see this wardrobe. "

But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile on his face, which, when the box was opened, turned into a fair burst of laughter. Itcontained--not papers regarding the conspiracy--but my lady's wigs, washes, and rouge-pots, and Victoire said men were monsters, as theCaptain went on with his search. He tapped the back to see whether or noit was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cupboard, my lady fromher bed called out, with a voice that did not sound like that of a verysick woman:

"Is it your commission to insult ladies as well as to arrestgentlemen, Captain?"

"These articles are only dangerous when worn by your ladyship, " theCaptain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin of politeness. "I havefound nothing which concerns the government as yet--only the weapons withwhich beauty is authorised to kill, " says he, pointing to a wig with hissword-tip. "We must now proceed to search the rest of the house. "

"You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with me, " cried mylady, pointing to the soldier. 

"What can I do, madam? Somebody you must have to smooth your pillow andbring your medicine--permit me--"

"Sir!" screamed out my lady. 

"Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed, " the Captain then said, rather sternly, "I must have in four of my men to lift you off in thesheet. I must examine this bed, in a word; papers may be hidden in a bedas elsewhere; we know that very well, and--"

Here it was her ladyship's turn to shriek, for the Captain, with hisfist shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last wrenching away one of thepillows, said, "Look! did not I tell you so? Here is a pillow stuffedwith paper. And now your ladyship can move, I am sure; permit me to giveyou my hand to rise. You will have to travel for some distance, as far asHexton Castle to-night. Will you have your coach? Your woman shall attendyou if you like--and the japan-box?"

"Sir! you don't strike a _man_ when he is down, " said my lady, with somedignity; "can you not spare a woman?"

"Your ladyship must please to rise, and let me search the bed, " said theCaptain; "there is no more time to lose in bandying talk. "

And, without more ado, the gaunt old woman got up. Harry Esmondrecollected to the end of his life that figure, with the brocade dressunder the white nightdress, and the gold-clocked red stockings, and whitered-heeled shoes, sitting up in the bed, and stepping down from it. Thetrunks were ready packed for departure in her ante-room, and the horsesready harnessed in the stable: about all which the Captain seemed toknow, by information got from some quarter or other; and whence Esmondcould make a pretty shrewd guess in after-times, when Dr. Tushercomplained that King William's government had basely treated him forservices done in that cause. 

And here we may relate, though he was then too young to know all that washappening, what the papers contained, of which Captain Westbury had madea seizure, and which papers had been transferred from the japan-box tothe bed when the officers arrived. 

There was a list of gentlemen of the county, in Father Holt'shandwriting, who were King James's friends; also a patent conferring thetitle of Marquis of Esmond on my Lord Castlewood and the heirs-male ofhis body; his appointment as Lord-Lieutenant of the County, andMajor-General. There were various letters from the nobility and gentry, some ardent and some doubtful, and all valuable to the men who foundthem, for reasons which the lad knew little about; only being aware thathis patron and his mistress were in some trouble, which had caused theflight of the one and the apprehension of the other by the officers ofKing William. 

The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did not pursue theirfurther search through Castlewood House very rigorously. They onlyexamined Mr. Holt's room, being led thither by his pupil, who showed, asthe Father had bidden him, the place where the key of his chamber lay, opened the door for the gentlemen, and conducted them into the room. 

When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in the bowl, theyexamined them eagerly enough, and their young guide was a little amusedat their perplexity. 

"What are these?" says one. 

"They're written in a foreign language, " says the lawyer. "What areyou laughing at, little whelp?" he added, turning round as he saw theboy smile. 

"Mr. Holt said they were sermons, " Harry said, "and bade me to burnthem;" which indeed was true of those papers. 

"Sermons, indeed--it's treason, I would lay a wager, " cries the lawyer. 

"Egad! it's Greek to me, " says Captain Westbury. "Can you read it, little boy?"

"Yes, sir, a little, " Harry said. 

"Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril, " said the lawyer. And Harry began to translate:

"Hath not one of your own writers said, 'The children of Adam are nowlabouring as much as he himself ever did, about the tree of the knowledgeof good and evil, shaking the boughs thereof, and seeking the fruit, being for the most part unmindful of the tree of life. ' O blindgeneration! 'tis this tree of knowledge to which the serpent has ledyou"--and here the boy was obliged to stop, the rest of the page beingcharred by the fire, and asked of the lawyer--"Shall I go on, sir?"

The lawyer said, "This boy is deeper than he seems: who knows that he isnot laughing at us?"

"Let's have in Dick the Scholar, " cried Captain Westbury, laughing, andhe called to a trooper out of the window, "Ho, Dick, come in here andconstrue. "

A soldier, with a good-humoured face, came in at the summons, salutinghis officer. 

"Tell us what is this, Dick Steele, " says the lawyer. 

"'Tis Latin, " says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting his officer, "and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's, " and he translated the words prettymuch as Henry Esmond had rendered them. 

"What a young scholar you are, " says the Captain to the boy. 

"Depend on't, he knows more than he tells, " says the lawyer. "I think wewill pack him off in the coach with the old lady. "

"For construing a bit of Latin?" said the Captain, very good-naturedly. 

"I would as lief go there as anywhere, " Harry Esmond said, simply, "forthere is nobody to care for me. "

There must have been something touching in the child's voice, or in thisdescription of his solitude, for the Captain looked at him verygood-naturedly, and the trooper called Steele put his hand kindly on thelad's head, and said some words in the Latin language. 

"What does he say?" says the lawyer. 

"I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had learned tosuccor the miserable, and that's not your trade, Mr. Sheepskin, " saidthe trooper. 

"You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbett!" the Captainsaid. And Harry Esmond, always touched by a kind face and a kind word, felt very grateful to this good-natured champion. 

The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach; and my Lady Isabellawas consigned to that vehicle and sent off to Hexton, with her woman andthe man-of-law to bear her company, a couple of troopers riding on eitherside of the coach. And Harry was left behind at the Hall, belonging, asit were, to nobody, and quite alone in the world. The Captain and a guardof men remained in possession there; and the soldiers, who were verygood-natured and kind, ate my lord's mutton and drank his wine, and madethemselves comfortable, as they well might do in such pleasant quarters. 

After the departure of the countess, Dick the Scholar took Harry Esmondunder his special protection, and would talk to him both of French andLatin, in which tongues the lad found that he was even more proficientthan Scholar Dick. Hearing that he had learned them from a Jesuit, in thepraise of whom and whose goodness Harry was never tired of speaking, Dick, rather to the boy's surprise, showed a great deal of theologicalscience, and knowledge of the points at issue between the Catholic andProtestant churches; so that he and Harry would have hours ofcontroversy together, with which conversations the long days of thetrooper's stay at Castlewood were whiled away. Though the other trooperswere all gentlemen, they seemed ignorant and vulgar to Harry Esmond, withthe exception of this good-natured Corporal Steele, Scholar, althoughCaptain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant were always kind to the lad. 

They remained for some months at Castlewood, and Harry learned from them, from time to time, how Lady Isabella was being treated at Hexton Castle, and the particulars of her confinement there. King William was disposedto deal very leniently with the gentry who remained faithful to the oldking's cause; and no Prince usurping a crown as his enemies said he did, ever caused less blood to be shed. As for women-conspirators, he keptspies on the least dangerous, and locked up the others. Lady Castlewoodhad the best rooms in Hexton Castle, and the gaoler's garden to walk in;and though she repeatedly desired to be led out to execution like MaryQueen of Scots, there never was any thought of taking her painted oldhead off. She even found that some were friends in her misfortune, whomshe had, in her prosperity, considered as her worst enemies. ColonelFrancis Esmond, my lord's cousin and her ladyship's hearing of hiskinswoman's scrape, came to visit her in prison, offering any friendlyservices which lay in his power. He brought, too, his lady and littledaughter, Beatrix, the latter a child of great beauty and many winningways, to whom the old viscountess took not a little liking, and who waspermitted after that to go often and visit the prisoner. 

And now there befell an event by which Lady Isabella recovered herliberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner, Colonel FrancisEsmond, and fatherless little Harry Esmond, the new and most kindprotector and friend, whom we met at the opening of this story. My Lordof Castlewood was wounded at the battle of the Boyne, flying from whichfield he lay for a while concealed in a marsh, and more from cold andfever caught in the bogs than from the steel of the enemy in thebattle, died. 

In those days letters were slow of travelling, and that of a priestannouncing my lord's death took two months or more on its journey fromIreland to England. When it did arrive, Lady Isabella was stillconfined in Hexton Castle, but the letter was opened at Castlewood byCaptain Westbury. 

Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, which wasbrought in as Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant were on the Greenplaying at Bowls, young Esmond looking on at the sport. 

"Something has happened to Lord Castlewood, " Captain Westbury said, in avery grave tone. "He is dead of a wound received at the Boyne, fightingfor King James. I hope he has provided for thee somehow. Thou hast onlyhim to depend on now. "

Harry did not know, he said. He was in the hands of Heaven, as he hadbeen all the rest of his life. That night as he lay in the darkness hethought with a pang how Father Holt and two or three soldiers, hisacquaintances of the last six weeks, were the only friends he had in thegreat wide world. The soul of the boy was full of love, and he longed ashe lay in the darkness there for someone upon whom he could bestow it. Lady Isabella was in prison, his patron was dead, Father Holt wasgone, --he knew not where, --Tom Tusher was far away. To whom could he turnnow for comradeship?

He remembered to his dying day the thoughts and tears of that longnight--was there any child in the whole world so unprotected as he?

The next day the gentlemen of the guard, who had heard what had befallenhim, were more than usually kind to the child, and upon talking thematter over with Dick they decided that Harry should stay where he was, and abide his fortune; so he stayed on at Castlewood after the garrisonhad been ordered away. He was sorry when the kind soldiers vacatedCastlewood, and looked forward with no small anxiety to his fate when thenew lord and lady of the house, --Colonel Francis Esmond and hiswife, --should come to live there. He was now past twelve years old andhad an affectionate heart, tender to weakness, that would gladly attachitself to somebody, and would not feel at rest until it had found afriend who would take charge of it. 

Then came my lord and lady into their new domain, and my lady'sintroduction to the little lad, whom she found in the book-room, as wehave seen. 

The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and love the graciousperson, the fair apparition, whose beauty and kindness so moved him whenhe first beheld her, became soon a passion of gratitude, which entirelyfilled his young heart. There seemed, as the boy thought, in her everylook or gesture, an angelic softness and bright pity. In motion or reposeshe seemed gracious alike; the tone of her voice, though she spoke wordsever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted almost to pain. Itcould not be called love, that a lad of his age felt for his mistress:but it was worship. To catch her glance, to divine her errand and run onit before she had spoken it; to watch, follow, adore her, became thebusiness of his life. 

As for my Lord Castlewood, he was good-humoured, of a temper naturallyeasy, liking to joke, especially with his inferiors, and charmed toreceive the tribute of their laughter. All exercises of the body he couldperform to perfection--shooting at a mark, breaking horses, riding at thering, pitching the quoit, playing at all games with great skill. He wasfond of the parade of dress, and also fond of having his lady welldressed; who spared no pains in that matter to please him. Indeed, shewould dress her head or cut it off if he had bidden her. 

My Lord Viscount took young Esmond into his special favour, luckily forthe lad. A very few months after my lord's coming to Castlewood in thewinter time, little Frank being a child in petticoats, trotting about, ithappened that little Frank was with his father after dinner, who fellasleep, heedless of the child, who crawled to the fire. As good fortunewould have it, Esmond was sent by his mistress for the boy, just as thepoor little screaming urchin's coat was set on fire by a log. Esmond, rushing forward, tore the dress off, so that his own hands were burnedmore than the little boy's, who was frightened rather than hurt by theaccident. As my lord was sleeping heavily, it certainly was providentialthat a resolute person should have come in at that instant, or the childwould have been burned to death. 

Ever after this, the father was loud in his expressions of remorse, andof admiration for Harry Esmond, and had the tenderest regard for hisson's preserver. His burns were tended with the greatest care by his kindmistress, who said that Heaven had sent him to be the guardian of herchildren, and that she would love him all her life. 

And it was after this, and from the very great love and tenderness whichgrew up in this little household, that Harry came to be quite of thereligion of his house, and his dear mistress, of which he has ever sincebeen a professing member. 

My lady had three idols: her lord, the good Viscount of Castlewood, --herlittle son, who had his father's looks and curly, brown hair, --and herdaughter Beatrix, who had his eyes--were there ever such beautiful eyesin the world?

A pretty sight it was to see the fair mistress of Castlewood, her littledaughter at her knee, and her domestics gathered around her, reading theMorning Prayer of the English Church. Esmond long remembered how shelooked and spoke, kneeling reverently before the sacred book, the sunshining upon her golden hair until it made a halo round about her, adozen of the servants of the house kneeling in a line opposite theirmistress. For a while Harry Esmond as a good papist kept apart from thesemysteries, but Dr. Tusher, showing him that the prayers read were thoseof the Church of all ages, he came presently to kneel down with the restof the household in the parlour; and before a couple of years my lady hadmade a thorough convert. Indeed, the boy loved her so much that he wouldhave subscribed to anything she bade him at that time, and the happiestperiod of all his life was this: when the young mother, with her daughterand son, and the orphan lad whom she protected, read and worked andplayed, and were children together. 

But as Esmond grew, and observed for himself, he found much to read andthink of outside that fond circle of kinsfolk. He read more books thanthey cared to study with him; was alone in the midst of them many a time, and passed nights over labours, useless perhaps, but in which they couldnot join him. His dear mistress divined his thoughts with her usualjealous watchfulness of affection; began to forebode a time when hewould escape from his home nest; and at his eager protestations to thecontrary, would only sigh and shake her head, knowing that some day herpredictions would come true. 

Meanwhile evil fortune came upon the inmates of Castlewood Hall; broughtthither by no other than Harry himself. In those early days, before LadyMary Wortley Montague brought home the custom of inoculation from Turkey, smallpox was considered, as indeed it was, the most dreadful scourge ofthe world. The pestilence would enter a village and destroy half itsinhabitants. At its approach not only the beautiful, but the strongestwere alarmed, and those fled who could. 

One day in the year 1694 Dr. Tusher ran into Castlewood House with a faceof consternation, saying that the malady had made its appearance in thevillage, that a child at the Inn was down with the smallpox. 

Now there was a pretty girl at this Inn, Nancy Sievewright, theblacksmith's daughter, a bouncing, fresh-looking lass, with whom HarryEsmond in his walks and rambles often happened to fall in; or, failing tomeet her, he would discover some errand to be done at the blacksmith's, or would go to the Inn to find her. 

When Dr. Tusher brought the news that smallpox was at the Inn, HenryEsmond's first thought was of alarm for poor Nancy, and then of disquietfor the Castlewood family, lest he might have brought this infection tothem; for the truth is, that Mr. Harry had been sitting that day for anhour with Nancy Sievewright, holding her little brother, who hadcomplained of headache, on his knee; and had also since then been drawingpictures and telling stories to little Frank Castlewood, who had occupiedhis knee for an hour after dinner, and was never tired of Henry's talesof soldiers and horses. As luck would have it, Beatrix had not thatevening taken her usual place, which generally she was glad enough totake, upon her tutor's lap. For Beatrix, from the earliest time, wasjealous of every caress which was given to her little brother Frank. Shewould fling away even from her mother's arms if she saw Frank had beenthere before her; she would turn pale and red with rage if she caughtsigns of affection between Frank and his mother; would sit apart and notspeak for a whole night, if she thought the boy had a better fruit or alarger cake than hers; would fling away a ribbon if he had one too; andfrom the earliest age, sitting up in her little chair by the greatfireplace opposite to the corner where Lady Castlewood commonly sat ather embroidery, would utter childish sarcasm about the favour shown toher brother. These, if spoken in the presence of Lord Castlewood, tickledand amused his humour; he would pretend to love Frank best, and dandleand kiss him, and roar with laughter at Beatrix's jealousy. 

So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had had theblacksmith's son, and the peer's son, alike upon his knee, little Beatrixhad refused to take that place, seeing it had been occupied by herbrother, and, luckily for her, had sat at the further end of the roomaway from him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had--for which byfits and starts she would take a great affection--and talking at HarryEsmond over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, saying thatFido would love her, and she would love Fido and no one but Fido all therest of her life. 

When, then, Dr. Tusher brought the news that the little boy at the Innwas ill with the smallpox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock of alarm, notso much for himself as for little Frank, whom he might have brought intoperil. Beatrix, who had by this time pouted sufficiently (and who, whenever a stranger appeared, began from infancy almost to play offlittle graces to catch his attention), her brother being now gone to bed, was for taking her place upon Esmond's knee: for though the Doctor wasvery attentive to her, she did not like him because he had thick bootsand dirty hands (the pert young miss said), and because she hatedlearning the catechism. 

But as she advanced toward Esmond, he started back, and placed thegreat chair on which he was sitting between him and her--saying inFrench to Lady Castlewood, "Madam, the child must not approach me; Imust tell you that I was at the blacksmith's to-day, and had his littleboy upon my lap. "

"Where you took my son afterwards!" Lady Castlewood cried, very angry, and turning red. "I thank you, sir, for giving him such company. Beatrix, " she continued in English, "I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come away, child--come to your room. Come to your room--I wish yourreverence good-night"--this to Dr. Tusher--adding to Harry: "and you, sir, had not you better go back to your friends at the Inn?"

Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; andshe tossed up her head with the mien of a Princess, adding such words ofreproach and indignation that Harry Esmond, to whom she had never oncebefore uttered a syllable of unkindness, stood for some momentsbewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of her reproaches. Heturned quite white from red, and answered her in a low voice, ending hislittle speech with these words, addressed to Lord Castlewood: "Heavenbless you and yours for your goodness to me. I have tired her ladyship'skindness out, and I will go;" and sinking down on his knee, took therough hand of his benefactor and kissed it. 

Here my lady burst into a flood of tears, and quitted the room, as mylord raised up Harry Esmond from his kneeling posture, put his broad handon the lad's shoulder, and spoke kindly to him. Then, suddenlyremembering that Harry might have brought the infection with him, hestepped back suddenly, saying, "Keep off, Harry, my boy; there is no goodin running into the wolf's jaws, you know!"

My lady, who had now returned to the room, said: "There is no use, mylord. Frank was on his knee as he was making pictures, and was runningconstantly from Henry to me. The evil is done, if any. "

"Not with me!" cried my lord. "I've been smoking, and it keeps offinfection, and as the disease is in the village, plague take it, I wouldhave you leave it. We'll go to-morrow to Wolcott. "

"I have no fear, my lord, " said my lady; "it broke out in our house whenI was an infant, and when four of my sisters had it at home, two yearsbefore our marriage, I escaped it. "

"I won't run the risk, " said my lord; "I am as bold as any man, but I'llnot bear that. "

"Take Beatrix with you and go, " said my lady. "For us the mischief isdone. "

Then my lord, calling away Tusher, bade him come to the oak parlour andhave a pipe. When my lady and Harry Esmond were alone there was a silenceof some moments, after which her ladyship spoke in a hard, dry voice ofher objections to his intimacy with the blacksmith's daughter, and sheadded, "Under all the circumstances I shall beg my lord to despatch youfrom this house as quick as possible; and will go on with Frank'slearning as well as I can. I owe my father thanks for a littlegrounding, and you, I am sure, for much that you have taught me. And--Iwish you a good-night. "

And with this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle, wentaway through the tapestry door which led to her apartments. Esmond stoodby the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed tosee until she was gone; and then her image was impressed upon him, andremained forever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating, the taperlighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and her shininggolden hair. He went to his own room, and to bed, where he tried to read, as his custom was; but he never knew what he was reading. And he couldnot get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache, andquite unrefreshed. 

He had brought the contagion with him from the Inn, sure enough, and waspresently laid up with the smallpox, which spared the Hall no more thanit did the cottage. 

When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that malady, and returnedto health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had also suffered andrallied after the disease, and that Lady Castlewood was down with it, with a couple more of the household. "It was a Providence, for which weall ought to be thankful, " Dr. Tusher said, "that my lady and her sonwere spared, while death carried off the poor domestics of the house;"and he rebuked Harry for asking in his simply way, for which we ought tobe thankful; that the servants were killed or the gentlefolk were saved?Nor could young Esmond agree with the Doctor that the malady had not inthe least impaired my lady's charms, for Harry thought that herladyship's beauty was very much injured by the smallpox. When the marksof the disease cleared away, they did not, it is true, leave scars onher face, except one on her forehead, but the delicacy of her complexionwas gone, her eyes had lost their brilliancy and her face looked older. When Tusher vowed and protested that this was not so, in the presence ofmy lady, the lad broke out impulsively, and said, "It is true; mymistress is not near so handsome as she was!" On which poor LadyCastlewood gave a rueful smile, and a look into a little glass she had, which showed her, I suppose, that what the stupid boy said was only tootrue, for she turned away from the glass, and her eyes filled with tears. 

The sight of these on the face of the lady whom he loved best filledEsmond's heart with a soft of rage of pity, and the young blunderer sankdown on his knees and besought her to pardon him, saying that he was afool and an idiot, that he was a brute to make such a speech, he, whocaused her malady; and Dr. Tusher told him that he was a bear indeed, anda bear he would remain, after which speech poor young Esmond was sodumb-stricken that he did not even growl. 

"He is my bear, and I will not have him baited, Doctor, " my lady said, patting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as he was still kneeling ather feet. "How your hair has come off!--and mine, too, " she added, withanother sigh. 

"Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in theworld, I think, " the lad said. 

"Will my lord think so when he comes back?" the lady asked with a sigh, and another look at her glass. Then turning to her young son she said, "Come, Frank, come, my child. You are well, praised be Heaven. _Your_locks are not thinned by this dreadful smallpox; nor your poor facescarred--is it, my angel?"

Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such a misfortune, forfrom the very earliest time the young lord had been taught by his motherto admire his own beauty; and esteemed it very highly. 

At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced that my lordand Beatrix would return. Esmond well remembered the day. My lady was ina flurry of fear. Before my lord came she went into her room, andreturned from it with reddened cheeks. Her fate was about to be decided. Would my lord--who cared so much for physical perfection--find hers gone, too? A minute would say. She saw him come riding over the bridge, clad inscarlet, and mounted on his grey hackney, his little daughter beside him, in a bright riding dress of blue, on a shining chestnut horse. My ladyput her handkerchief to her eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysterically. She ran to her room again, and came back with pale cheeks and red eyes, her son beside her, just as my lord entered, accompanied by young Esmond, who had gone out to meet his protector, and to hold his stirrup as hedescended from horseback. 

"What, Harry boy!" he exclaimed good-naturedly, "you look as gaunt as agreyhound. The smallpox hasn't improved your beauty, and you never hadtoo much of it--ho!"

And he laughed and sprang to the ground, looking handsome and red, with ajolly face and brown hair. Esmond, kneeling again, as soon as his patronhad descended, performed his homage, and then went to help the littleBeatrix from her horse. 

"Fie! how yellow you look, " she said; "and there are one, two red holesin your face;" which indeed was very true, Harry Esmond's harshcountenance bearing as long as he lived the marks of the disease. 

My lord laughed again, in high good-humour, exclaiming with one of hisusual oaths, "The little minx sees everything. She saw the dowager'spaint t'other day, and asked her why she wore that red stuff--didn't you, Trix? And the Tower; and St. James's; and the play; and the PrinceGeorge; and the Princess Ann--didn't you, Trix?"

"They are both very fat, and smelt of brandy, " the child said. 

Papa roared with laughing. 

"Brandy!" he said. "And how do you know, Miss Pert?"

"Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when I kiss you beforeI go to bed, " said the young lady, who indeed was as pert as her fathersaid, and looked as beautiful a little gipsy as eyes ever gazed on. 

"And now for my lady, " said my lord, going up the stairs, and passingalone under the tapestry curtain that hung before the drawing-room door. Esmond always remembered that noble figure, handsomely arrayed inscarlet. Within the last few months he himself had grown from a boy to bea man, and with his figure his thoughts had shot up, and grown manly. 

After her lord's return, Harry Esmond watched my lady's countenance withsolicitous affection, and noting its sad, depressed look realised thatthere was a marked change in her. In her eagerness to please her husbandshe practised a hundred arts which had formerly pleased him, charmed him, but in vain. Her songs did not amuse him, and she hushed them and thechildren when in his presence. Her silence annoyed him as much as herspeech; and it seemed as if nothing she could do or say could please him. But for Harry Esmond his benefactress' sweet face had lost none of itscharms. It had always the kindest of looks and smiles for him; not so gayand artless perhaps as those which Lady Castlewood had formerly worn, butout of her griefs and cares, as will happen when trials fall upon akindly heart, grew up a number of thoughts and virtues which had nevercome into existence, had not her sorrow given birth to them. 

When Lady Castlewood found that she had lost the freshness of herhusband's admiration, she turned all her thoughts to the welfare of herchildren, learning that she might teach them, and improving her manynatural gifts and accomplishments that she might impart them. She madeherself a good scholar of French, Italian, and Latin. Young Esmond washouse-tutor under her or over her, as it might happen, no more havingbeen said of his leaving Castlewood since the night before he came downwith the smallpox. During my lord's many absences these school days wouldgo on uninterruptedly: the mother and daughter learning with surprisingquickness, the latter by fits and starts only, as suited her waywardhumour. As for the little lord, it must be owned that he took after hisfather in the matter of learning, liked marbles and play and sport best, and enjoyed marshalling the village boys, of whom he had a little court;already flogging them, and domineering over them with a fine imperiousspirit that made his father laugh when he beheld it, and his motherfondly warn him. Dr. Tusher said he was a young nobleman of gallantspirit; and Harry Esmond, who was eight years his little lordship'ssenior, had hard work sometimes to keep his own temper, and hold hisauthority over his rebellious little chief. 

Indeed, "Mr. Tutor, " as my lady called Esmond, had now business enough onhis hands in Castlewood house. He had his pupils, besides writing mylord's letters, and arranging his accounts for him, when these could begot from his indolent patron. 

Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, and as mylady would admit no discipline such as was then in use, my lord's sononly learned what he liked, which was but little, and never to his life'send could be got to construe more than six lines of Virgil. MistressBeatrix chattered French prettily, from a very early age; and sangsweetly, but this was from her mother's teaching, not Harry Esmond's, whocould scarce distinguish one air from another, although he had no greaterdelight in life than to hear the ladies sing. He never forgot them asthey used to sit together of the summer evenings, the two golden headsover the page, the child's little hand, and the mother's, beating thetime with their voices rising and falling in unison. 

But these happy days were to end soon, and it was by Lady Castlewood'sown decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It happened aboutChristmas time, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen years of age, thathis old comrade, Tom Tusher, returned from school in London, a fair, well-grown and sturdy lad, who was about to enter college, with goodmarks from his school, and a prospect of after-promotion in the church. Tom Tusher's talk was of nothing but Cambridge now; and the boys examinedeach other eagerly about their progress in books. Tom had learned someGreek and Hebrew, besides Latin, in which he was pretty well skilled, andalso had given himself to mathematical study under his father's guidance. Harry Esmond could not write Latin as well as Tom, though he could talkit better, having been taught by his dear friend the Jesuit Father, forwhose memory the lad ever retained the warmest affection, reading hisbooks, and keeping his swords clean. Often of a night sitting in theChaplain's room, over his books, his verses, his rubbish, with which thelad occupied himself, he would look up at the window, wishing it mightopen and let in the good father. He had come and passed away like adream; but for the swords and books Harry might almost think he was animagination of his mind--and for two letters which had come from him, onefrom abroad, full of advice and affection, another soon after Harry hadbeen confirmed by the Bishop of Hexton, in which Father Holt deplored hisfalling away from the true faith. But it would have taken greaterpersuasion than his to induce the boy to worship other than with hisbeloved mistress, and under her kind eyes he read many volumes of theworks of the famous British divines of the last age. His mistress nevertired of pursuing their texts with fond comments, or to urge those pointswhich her fancy dwelt on most, or her reason deemed most important. 

In later life, at the University, Esmond pursued the subject in a verydifferent manner, as was suitable for one who was to become a clergyman. But his heart was never much inclined towards this calling. He made uphis mind to wear the cassock and bands as another man does to wear abreastplate and jack-boots, or to mount a merchant's desk for alivelihood--from obedience and necessity, rather than from choice. 

When Thomas Tusher was gone, a feeling of no small depression anddisquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which, though he did not complain, his kind mistress must have guessed the cause: for, soon after, sheshowed not only that she understood the reason of Harry's melancholy, but could provide a remedy for it. All the notice, however, which sheseemed to take of his melancholy, was by a gaiety unusual to her, attempting to dispel his gloom. She made his scholars more cheerful thanever they had been before, and more obedient, too, learning and readingmuch more than they had been accustomed to do. "For who knows, " saidthe lady, "what may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such alearned tutor long?"

Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn any more, andcousin Harry might shut up his book whenever he liked, if he would comeout a-fishing; and little Beatrix declared she would send for TomTusher, and _he_ would be glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harrychose to go away. 

At last came a messenger from Winchester one day, bearer of a letterwith a great black seal, from the Dean there, to say that his sister wasdead, and had left her fortune among her six nieces, of which LadyCastlewood was one. 

When my lord heard of the news, he made no pretence of grieving. 

"The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room and the cellar, which is getting low, and buy your ladyship a coat, and a couple of newhorses. And, Beatrix, you shall have a spinnet; and, Frank, you shallhave a little horse from Hexton Fair; and, Harry, you shall have fivepounds to buy some books, " said my lord, who was generous with his own, and indeed with other folk's money. 

"I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend yourmoney, and all your sisters', too. "

"I have but one aunt--and--and I have another use for the money, mylord, " said my lady. 

"Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?" said my lord. "And what the devil is there that I don't give you which you want?"

"I intend this money for Harry Esmond to go to college, " says my lady. "You mustn't stay longer in this dull place, but make a name foryourself, and for us, too, Harry. "

"Is Harry going away? You don't mean to say you will go away?" cried outFrank and Beatrix in one breath. 

"But he will come back; and this will always be his home, " cried my lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness. "And his scholars willalways love him, won't they?"

"Rachel, you're a good woman!" exclaimed my lord, with an oath, seizingmy lady's hand. "I wish you joy!" he continued, giving Harry Esmond ahearty slap on the shoulder. "I won't balk your luck. Go to Cambridge, boy, and when Tusher dies you shall have the living here, if you are notbetter provided by that time. We'll furnish the dining-room and buy thehorses another year. I'll give thee a nag out of the stables; take anyone except my hack and the bay gelding and the coach horses; and Godspeed thee, my boy!"

"Have the sorrel, Harry; 'tis a good one. Father says 'tis the best inthe stable, " said little Frank, clapping his hands and jumping up. "Let's come and see him in the stable. " And Harry Esmond in his delightand eagerness was for leaving the room that instant to arrange abouthis journey. 

The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating glances. 

"He wishes to be gone already, my lord, " said she to her husband. 

The young man hung back abashed. "Indeed, I would stay forever if yourladyship bade me, " he said. 

"And thou wouldst be a fool for thy pains, " said my lord. "Tut, tut, man. Go and see the world. Sow thy wild oats; and take the best luck that fatesends thee. I wish I were a boy again, that I might go to college andtaste the Thumpington ale. "

"Indeed, you are best away, " said my lady, laughing, as she put her handon the boy's head for a moment. "You shall stay in no such dull place. You shall go to college and distinguish yourself as becomes your name. That is how you shall please me best; and--and if my children want you, or I want you, you shall come to us; and I know we may count on you. "

"May Heaven forsake me if you may not!" Harry said, getting upfrom his knee. 

"And my knight longs for a dragon this instant that he may fight, " saidmy lady, laughing; which speech made Harry Esmond start, and turn red;for indeed the very thought was in his mind, that he would like that somechance should immediately happen whereby he might show his devotion. Andit pleased him to think that his lady had called him "her knight, " andoften and often he recalled this to his mind, and prayed that he might beher true knight, too. 

My lady's bed-chamber window looked out over the country, and you couldsee from it the purple hills beyond Castlewood village, the green commonbetwixt that and the Hall, and the old bridge which crossed over theriver. When Harry Esmond went away to Cambridge, little Frank ranalongside his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for amoment, and looked back at the house where the best part of his life hadbeen passed. 

It lay before him with its grey familiar towers, a pinnacle or twoshining in the sun, the buttresses and terrace walls casting great blueshades on the grass. And Harry remembered all his life after how he sawhis mistress at the window looking out on him in a white robe, the littleBeatrix's chestnut curls resting at her mother's side. Both waved afarewell to him, and little Frank sobbed to leave him. Yes, he _would_be his lady's true knight, he vowed in his heart; he waved her an adieuwith his hat. The village people had good-bye to say to him, too. Allknew that Master Harry was going to college, and most of them had a kindword and a look of farewell. I do not stop to say what adventures hebegan to imagine, or what career to devise for himself before he hadridden three miles from home. He had not read the Arabian tales as yet;but be sure that there are other folks who build castles in the air, andhave fine hopes, and kick them down, too, besides honest Alnaschar. 

This change in his life was a very fine thing indeed for Harry, who rodeaway in company of my lord, who said he should like to revisit the oldhaunts of his youth, and so accompanied Harry to Cambridge. Their roadlay through London, where my Lord Viscount would have Harry stay a fewdays to see the pleasures of the town before he entered upon hisuniversity studies, and whilst here Harry's patron conducted the youngman to my lady dowager's house near London. Lady Isabella received themcordially, and asked Harry what his profession was to be. Upon hearingthat the lad was to take orders, and to have the living of Castlewoodwhen old Dr. Tusher vacated it, she seemed glad that the youth should beso provided for. 

She bade Harry Esmond pay her a visit whenever he passed through London, and carried her graciousness so far as to send a purse with twentyguineas for him to the tavern where he and his lord were staying, andwith this welcome gift sent also a little doll for Beatrix, who, however, was growing beyond the age of dolls by this time, and was almost as tallas Lady Isabella. 

After seeing the town, and going to the plays, my Lord Castlewood andEsmond rode together to Cambridge, spending two pleasant days upon thejourney. Those rapid new coaches that performed the journey in a singleday were not yet established, but the road was pleasant and short enoughto Harry Esmond, and he always gratefully remembered that happy holidaywhich his kind patron gave him. 

Henry Esmond was entered at Trinity College, Cambridge, to which famouscollege my lord had also in his youth belonged. My Lord Viscount wasreceived with great politeness by the head master, as well as by Mr. Bridge, who was appointed to be Harry's tutor. Tom Tusher, who was bythis time a junior Soph, came to take Harry under his protection; andcomfortable rooms being provided for him, Harry's patron took leave ofhim with many kind words and blessings, and an admonition to have tobehave better at the University than my lord himself had ever done. 

Thus began Harry Esmond's college career, which was in no wise differentfrom that of a hundred other young gentlemen of that day. Meanwhile, while he was becoming used to the manners and customs of his new life andenjoying it thoroughly in his quiet way; at Castlewood Hall life was notso cheerful as it had been when he was there to note his mistress' sorrowor joy and act according to her need. 

Coming home to his dear Castlewood in the third year of his academiccourse, Harry was overjoyed to see again the kind blue eyes of hismistress, when she and the children came to greet him. He found Frankshooting up to be like his gallant father in looks and in tastes. He hadhis hawks, and his spaniel dog, his little horse, and his beagles; hadlearned to ride and to shoot flying, and had a small court made up ofthe sons of the huntsmen and woodsmen, over whom he ruled as imperiouslyas became the heir-apparent. 

As for Beatrix, Esmond found her grown to be taller than her mother, aslim and lovely young girl, with cheeks mantling with health and roses;with eyes like stars shining out of azure, with waving bronze hairclustered about the fairest young forehead ever seen; and a mien andshape haughty and beautiful, such as that of the famous antique statue ofthe huntress Diana. 

This bright creature was the darling and torment of father and mother. She intrigued with each secretly, and bestowed her fondness and withdrewit, plied them with tears, smiles, kisses, caresses; when the mother wasangry, flew to the father; when both were displeased, transferred hercaresses to the domestics, or watched until she could win back herparents' good graces, either by surprising them into laughter andgood-humour, or appeasing them by submissive and an artful humility. Shehad been a coquette from her earliest days; had long learned the value ofher bright eyes, and tried experiments in coquetry upon rustics andcountry 'squires until she should have opportunity to conquer a largerworld in later years. 

When, then, Harry Esmond came home to Castlewood for his last vacation hefound his old pupil shot up into this capricious beauty; her brother, ahandsome, high-spirited, brave lad, generous and frank and kind toeverybody, save perhaps Beatrix, with whom he was perpetually at war, andnot from his, but her, fault; adoring his mother, whose joy he was. AndLady Castlewood was no whit less gracious and attractive to Harry than inthe old days when as a lad he had first kissed her fair, protecting hand. 

Such was the group who welcomed Henry Esmond on his return from college. 

Not anticipating the future, not looking ahead, let us leave beautifulBeatrix, imperious young Frank, sweet Lady Castlewood, giving a gladwelcome to their old friend and tutor. Truly we carry away a prettypicture as we finish this chapter of Esmond's youth. 

THE VIRGINIANS

[Illustration: WARRINGTON AND GEORGE WASHINGTON. ]

Henry Esmond, Esq. , an officer who had served with the rank of Colonelduring the wars of Queen Anne's reign, found himself at its closeinvolved in certain complications, both political and private. For thisreason Mr. Esmond thought best to establish himself in Virginia, where hetook possession of a large estate conferred by King Charles I. Upon hisancestor. Mr. Esmond previously to this had married Rachel, widow of thelate Francis Castlewood, Baronet, by whom he had one daughter, afterwardsMadame Warrington, whose twin sons, George and Henry Warrington, wereknown as the Virginians. 

Mr. Esmond called his American house Castlewood, from the family estatein England. The whole customs of Virginia, indeed, were fondly modelledafter the English customs. The Virginians boasted that King Charles II. Had been king in Virginia before he had been king in England. Theresident gentry were connected with good English families and lived ontheir great lands after a fashion almost patriarchal. For its roughcultivation, each estate had a multitude of hands, who were subject tothe command of the master. The land yielded their food, live stock andgame. The great rivers swarmed with fish for the taking. Their ships tookthe tobacco off their private wharves on the banks of the Potomac or theJames River, and carried it to London or Bristol, bringing back Englishgoods and articles of home manufacture in return for the only producewhich the Virginian gentry chose to cultivate. Their hospitality wasboundless. No stranger was ever sent away from their gates. The questionof slavery was not born at the time of which we write. To be theproprietor of black servants shocked the feelings of no Virginiangentleman; nor, in truth, was the despotism exercised over the negro racegenerally a savage one. The food was plenty; the poor black people lazyand not unhappy. You might have preached negro-emancipation to MadameEsmond of Castlewood as you might have told her to let the horses runloose out of the stables; she had no doubt but that the whip and thecorn-bag were good for both. 

Having lost his wife, his daughter took the management of the Colonel andhis estate, and managed both with the spirit and determination whichgoverned her management of every person and thing which came within herjurisdiction. 

After fifteen years' residence upon his great Virginian estate theColonel agreed in his daughter's desire to replace the wooden house inwhich they lived, with a nobler mansion which would be more fitting forhis heirs to inherit. His daughter had a very high opinion indeed of herancestry, and her father, growing exquisitely calm and good-natured inhis serene declining years, humoured his child's peculiarities andinterests in an easy bantering way. Truth to tell, there were fewfamilies in England with nobler connections than the Esmonds. TheVirginians, Madame Rachel Warrington's sons, inherited the finest bloodand traditions, and the rightful king of England had not two morefaithful little subjects than the young twins of Castlewood. 

At Colonel Esmond's death, Madame Esmond, as she was thereafter called, proclaimed her eldest son, George, heir of the estate; and Harry, George's younger brother by half an hour, was instructed to respect hissenior. All the household was also instructed to pay him honour, and inthe whole family of servants there was only one rebel, Harry'sfoster-mother, a faithful negro woman who never could be made tounderstand why her child should not be first, who was handsomer andstronger and cleverer than his brother, as she vowed; though in truth, there was not much difference in the beauty, strength, or stature of thetwins. In disposition, they were in many points exceedingly unlike; butin feature they resembled each other so closely that, but for the colourof their hair, it had been difficult to distinguish them. In their beds, and when their heads were covered with those vast ribboned nightcapswhich our great and little ancestors wore, it was scarcely possible forany but a nurse or a mother to tell the one from the other child. 

Howbeit, alike in form, we have said that they differed in temper. Theelder was peaceful, studious and silent; the younger was warlike andnoisy. He was quick at learning when he began, but very slow atbeginning. No threats of the ferule would provoke Harry to learn in anidle fit, or would prevent George from helping his brother in his lesson. Harry was of a strong military turn, drilled the little negroes on theestate, and caned them like a corporal, having many good boxing-matcheswith them, and never bearing malice if he was worsted; whereas George wassparing of blows, and gentle with all about him. As the custom in allfamilies was, each of the boys had a special little servant assignedhim; and it was a known fact that George, finding his little wretch of ablackamoor asleep on his master's bed, sat down beside it and brushed theflies off the child with a feather-fan, to the horror of old Gumbo, thechild's father, who found his young master so engaged, and to theindignation of Madame Esmond, who ordered the young negro off to theproper officer for a whipping. In vain George implored and entreated, burst into passionate tears and besought a remission of the sentence. Hismother was inflexible regarding the young rebel's punishment, and thelittle negro went off beseeching his young master not to cry. 

A fierce quarrel between mother and son ensued out of this event. Her sonwould not be pacified. He said the punishment was a shame--a shame; thathe was the master of the boy, and no one--no, not his mother--had a rightto touch him; that she might order _him_ to be corrected, and that hewould suffer the punishment, as he and Harry often had, but no one shouldlay a hand on his boy. Trembling with passionate rebellion against whathe conceived the injustice of the procedure, he vowed that on the day hecame of age he would set young Gumbo free; went to visit the child in theslaves' quarters, and gave him one of his own toys. 

The black martyr was an impudent, lazy, saucy little personage, who wouldbe none the worse for a whipping, as the Colonel, who was then living, nodoubt thought; for he acquiesced in the child's punishment when MadameEsmond insisted upon it, and only laughed in his good-natured way whenhis indignant grandson called out:

"You let mamma rule you in everything, grandpapa. "

"Why so I do, " says grandpapa. "Rachel, my love, the way in which I ampetticoat-ridden is so evident that even this baby has found it out. "

"Then why don't you stand up like a man?" says little Harry, who alwayswas ready to abet his brother. 

Grandpapa looked queerly. 

"Because I like sitting down best, my dear, " he said. "I am an oldgentleman, and standing fatigues me. "

On account of a certain apish drollery and humour which exhibited itselfin the lad, and a liking for some of the old man's pursuits, the first ofthe twins was the grandfather's favourite and companion, and would laughand talk out all his infantine heart to the old gentleman, to whom theyounger had seldom a word to say. George was a demure, studious boy, andhis senses seemed to brighten up in the library, where his brother was sogloomy. He knew the books before he could well-nigh carry them, and readin them long before he could understand them. Harry, on the other hand, was all alive in the stables or in the wood, eager for all parties ofhunting and fishing, and promised to be a good sportsman from a veryearly age. The grandfather's ship was sailing for Europe once when theboys were children, and they were asked what present Captain Franks wouldbring them back? George was divided between books and a fiddle; Harryinstantly declared for a little gun; and Madame Warrington (as she thenwas called) was hurt that her elder boy should have low tastes, andapplauded the younger's choice as more worthy of his name and lineage. 

"Books, papa, I can fancy to be a good choice, " she replied to herfather, who tried to convince her that George had a right to hisopinion, "though I am sure you must have pretty nigh all the books inthe world already. But I never can desire--I may be wrong--but I nevercan desire, that my son, and the grandson of the Marquis of Esmond, should be a fiddler. "

"Should be a fiddlestick, my dear, " the old Colonel answered. "Rememberthat Heaven's ways are not ours, and that each creature born has a littlekingdom of thought of his own, which it is a sin in us to invade. SupposeGeorge loves music? You can no more stop him than you can order a rosenot to smell sweet, or a bird not to sing. "

"A bird! A bird sings from nature; George did not come into the worldwith a fiddle in his hand, " says Mrs. Warrington, with a toss of herhead. "I am sure I hated the harpsichord when a chit at Kensingtonschool, and only learned it to please my mamma. Say what you will, Icannot believe that this fiddling is work for persons of fashion. "

"And King David who played the harp, my dear?"

"I wish my papa would read him more, and not speak about him in thatway, " said Mrs. Warrington. 

"Nay, my dear, it was but by way of illustration, " the father repliedgently. It was Colonel's Esmond's nature always to be led by a woman, and he spoiled his daughter; laughing at her caprices, but humouringthem; making a joke of her prejudices, but letting them have their way;indulging, and perhaps increasing, her natural imperiousness ofcharacter, which asserted itself to an unusual degree after herfather's death. 

The Colonel's funeral was the most sumptuous one ever seen in thecountry. The little lads of Castlewood, almost smothered in black trainsand hat bands, headed the procession, followed by Madame EsmondWarrington (as she called herself after her father's death), by my LordFairfax, by his Excellency the Governor of Virginia, by the Randolphs, the Careys, the Harrisons, the Washingtons, and many others, for thewhole county esteemed the departed gentleman whose goodness, whose hightalents, whose unobtrusive benevolence had earned for him the justrespect of his neighbours. 

The management of the house of Castlewood had been in the hands of hisdaughter long before the Colonel slept the sleep of the just, for thetruth is little Madame Esmond never came near man or woman but she triedto domineer over them. If people obeyed, she was their very good friend;if they resisted, she fought and fought until she or they gave in, andwithout her father's influence to restrain her she was now more despoticthan ever. She exercised a rigid supervision over the estate; dismissedColonel Esmond's English factor and employed a new one; built, improved, planted, grew tobacco, appointed a new overseer, and imported a new tutorfor her boys. The little queen domineered over her little dominion, andover the princes her sons as well, thereby falling out frequently withher neighbours, with her relatives, and with her sons also. 

A very early difference which occurred between the queen and crown princearose out of the dismissal of the lad's tutor, Mr. Dempster, who had alsobeen the late Colonel's secretary. Upon his retirement George vowed henever would forsake his old tutor, and kept his promise. Another cause ofdispute between George and his mother presently ensued. 

By the death of an aunt, the heirs of Mr. George Warrington becameentitled to a sum of six thousand pounds, of which their mother was oneof the trustees. She never could be made to understand that she was notthe proprietor, but merely the trustee of this money; and was furiouswith the London lawyer who refused to send it over at her order. "Is notall I have my sons'?" she cried, "and would I not cut myself into littlepieces to serve them? With the six thousand pounds I would have boughtMr. Boulter's estate and negroes, which would have given us a goodthousand pounds a year, and made a handsome provision for my Harry. " Heryoung friend and neighbour, Mr. Washington of Mount Vernon, could notconvince her that the London agent was right, and must not give up histrust except to those for whom he held it. 

George Esmond, when this little matter was referred to him, and hismother vehemently insisted that he should declare himself, was of theopinion of Mr. Washington and Mr. Draper, the London lawyer. The boy saidhe could not help himself. He did not want the money; he would be veryglad to give the money to his mother if he had the power. But MadameEsmond would not hear of these reasons. Here was a chance of makingHarry's fortune--dear Harry, who was left with such a slender youngerbrother's pittance--and the wretches in London would not help him; hisown brother, who inherited all his papa's estate, would not help him. Tothink of a child of hers being so mean at _fourteen years of age_!

Into this state of mind the incident plunged Madame Warrington, and noamount of reasoning could bring her out of it. On account of theoccurrence she at once set to work saving for her younger son, for whomshe was eager to make a fortune. The fine buildings were stopped as wellas the fine fittings which had been ordered for the interior of the newhome. No more books were bought; the agent had orders to discontinuesending wine. Madame Esmond deeply regretted the expense of a finecarriage which she had from England, and only rode in it to church, crying out to the sons sitting opposite to her, "Harry, Harry! I wish Ihad put by the money for thee, my poor portionless child; three hundredand eighty guineas of ready money to Messieurs Hatchett!"

"You will give me plenty while you live, and George will give me plentywhen you die, " says Harry gaily. 

"Not until he changes in _spirit_, my dear, " says the lady grimly, glancing at her elder boy. "Not unless Heaven softens his heart andteaches him _charity_, for which I pray day and night; as Mountain knows;do you not, Mountain?"

Mrs. Mountain, Ensign Mountain's widow, who had been a friend of RachelEsmond in her school days, and since her widowhood had been MadameEsmond's companion in Castlewood house, serving to enliven many dullhours for that lady and enjoying thoroughly the home which Castlewoodafforded her and her child. Mrs. Mountain, I say, who was occupying thefourth seat in the family coach, said, "Humph! humph! I know you arealways disturbing yourself about this legacy, and I don't see that thereis any need. "

"Oh, no! no need!" cries the widow, rustling in her silks; "of course Ihave no need to be disturbed, because my eldest born is _a disobedientson and an unkind brother;_ because he has an estate, and my poor Harry, bless him, but a _mess of pottage_. "

George looked despairingly at his mother until he could see her no morefor eyes welled up with tears. "I wish you would bless me, too, O mymother!" he said, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Harry'sarms were in a moment round his brother's neck, and he kissed George ascore of times. 

"Never mind, George. I know whether you are a good brother or not. Don'tmind what she says. She don't mean it. "

"I do mean it, child, " cries the mother. "Would to Heaven--"

"_Hold your tongue, I say_!" roars out Harry. "It's a shame to speak soto him, ma'am. "

"And so it is, Harry, " says Mrs. Mountain, shaking his hand. "You neversaid a truer word in your life. "

"Mrs. Mountain, do you dare to set my children against me?" cries thewidow. "From this very day, madam--"

"Turn me and my child into the street? Do, " says Mrs. Mountain. "Thatwill be a fine revenge because the English lawyer won't give you theboy's money. Find another companion who will tell you black is white, andflatter you; it is not my way, madam. When shall I go? I shan't be longa-packing. I did not bring much into Castlewood house, and I shall nottake much out. "

"Hush! the bells are ringing for church, Mountain. Let us try, if youplease, and compose ourselves, " said the widow, and she looked with eyesof extreme affection, certainly at one, perhaps at both, of her children. George kept his head down, and Harry, who was near, got quite close tohim during the sermon, and sat with his arm round his brother's neck. 

From these incidents it may be clearly seen that Madame Esmond besidesbeing a brisk little woman at business and ruling like a little queen inCastlewood was also a victim of many freaks and oddities, among them oneof the most prominent being a great desire for flattery. There was noamount of compliment which she could not graciously receive and take asher due, and it was her greatest delight to receive attention fromsuitors of every degree. Her elder boy saw this peculiarity of hismother's disposition and chafed privately under it. From a very earlyday he revolted when compliments were paid to the little lady, andstrove to expose them with his youthful satire; so that his mother wouldsay gravely, "the Esmonds were always of a jealous disposition, and mypoor boy takes after my father and mother in this. "

One winter after their first tutor had been dismissed Madame Esmond tookthem to Williamsburg for such education as the schools and colleges thereafforded, and there they listened to the preaching and became acquaintedwith the famous Mr. Whitfield, who, at Madame Esmond's request, procureda tutor for the boys, by name Mr. Ward. For weeks Madame Esmond was nevertired of hearing Mr. Ward's utterances of a religious character, andaccording to her wont she insisted that her neighbours should come andlisten to him and ordered them to be converted to the faith which herepresented. Her young favourite, Mr. George Washington, she wasespecially anxious to influence; and again and again pressed him to comeand stay at Castlewood and benefit by the spiritual advantages there tobe obtained. But that young gentleman found he had particular businesswhich called him home or away from home, and always ordered his horse ofevenings when the time was coming for Mr. Ward's exercises. And--whatboys are just towards their pedagogue?--the twins grew speedily tired andeven rebellious under their new teacher. 

They found him a bad scholar, a dull fellow, and ill-bred to boot. Georgeknew much more Latin and Greek than his master; Harry, who could takemuch greater liberties than were allowed to his elder brother, mimickedWard's manner of eating and talking, so that Mrs. Mountain and evenMadame Esmond were forced to laugh, and little Fanny Mountain would crowwith delight. Madame Esmond would have found the fellow out for a vulgarquack but for her son's opposition, which she, on her part, opposed withher own indomitable will. 

George now began to give way to a sarcastic method, took up Ward'spompous remarks and made jokes of them so that that young divine chafedand almost choked over his great meals. He made Madame Esmond angry, anddoubly so when he sent off Harry into fits of laughter. Her authority wasdefied, her officer scorned and insulted, her youngest child perverted bythe obstinate elder brother. She made a desperate and unhappy attempt tomaintain her power. 

The boys were fourteen years of age, Harry being now taller and moreadvanced than his brother, who was delicate and as yet almost childlikein stature and appearance. The flogging method was quite a common modeof argument in these days. Our little boys had been horsed many a day byMr. Dempster, their Scotch tutor, in their grandfather's time; andHarry, especially, had got to be quite accustomed to the practice, andmade very light of it. But since Colonel Esmond's death, the cane hadbeen laid aside, and the young gentlemen at Castlewood had been allowedto have their own way. Her own and her lieutenant's authority being nowspurned by the youthful rebels, the unfortunate mother thought ofrestoring it by means of coercion. She took counsel of Mr. Ward. Thatathletic young pedagogue could easily find chapter and verse to warrantthe course he wished to pursue, --in fact, there was no doubt about thewholesomeness of the practice in those days. He had begun by flatteringthe boys, finding a good berth and snug quarters at Castlewood, andhoping to remain there. But they laughed at his flattery, they scornedhis bad manners, they yawned soon at his sermons; the more their motherfavoured him, the more they disliked him; and so the tutor and thepupils cordially hated each other. 

Mrs. Mountain warned the lads to be prudent, and that some conspiracy washatching against them; saying, "You must be on your guard, my poor boys. You must learn your lessons and not anger your tutor. Your mamma wastalking about you to Mr. Washington the other day when I came into theroom. I don't like that Major Washington, you know I don't. He is veryhandsome and tall, and he may be very good, but show me his wild oats Isay--not a grain! Well, I happened to step in last Tuesday when he washere with your mamma, and I am sure they were talking about you, for hesaid, 'Discipline is discipline, and must be preserved. There can be butone command in a house, ma'am, and you must be the mistress of yours. '"

"The very words he used to me, " cries Harry. "He told me that he did notlike to meddle with other folks' affairs, but that our mother was veryangry, and he begged me to obey Mr. Ward, and to press George to do so. "

"Let him manage his own house, not mine, " says George very haughtily. Andthe caution, far from benefiting him, only made the lad more scornful andrebellious. 

On the next day the storm broke. Words were passed between George and Mr. Ward during the morning study. The boy was quite disobedient and unjust. Even his faithful brother cried out, and owned that he was in the wrong. Mr. Ward bottled up his temper until the family met at dinner, when herequested Madame Esmond to stay, and laid the subject of discussionbefore her. 

He asked Master Harry to confirm what he had said; and poor Harry wasobliged to admit all his statements. 

George, standing under his grandfather's portrait by the chimney, saidhaughtily that what Mr. Ward had said was perfectly correct. 

"To be a tutor to such a pupil is absurd, " said Mr. Ward, making a longspeech containing many scripture phrases, at each of which young Georgesmiled scornfully; and at length Ward ended by asking her honour's leaveto retire. 

"Not before you have punished this wicked and disobedient child, " saidMadame Esmond. 

"Punish!" exclaimed George. 

"Yes, sir, punish! If means of love and entreaty fail, other means mustbe found to bring you to obedience. I punish you now, rebellious boy, toguard you from greater punishment hereafter. The discipline of thisfamily must be maintained. There can be but one command in a house, and Imust be the mistress of mine. You will punish this refractory boy, Mr. Ward, as we have agreed, and if there is the least resistance on his partmy overseer and servants will lend you aid. "

In the midst of his mother's speech George Esmond felt that he had beenwronged. "There can be but one command in the house and you must bemistress. I know who said those words before you, " George said slowly, and looking very white, "and--and I know, mother, that I have actedwrongly to Mr. Ward. "

"He owns it! He asks pardon!" cries Harry. "That's right, George! That'senough, isn't it?"

"No, it is _not_ enough! I know that he who spares the rod spoils thechild, ungrateful boy!" says Madame Esmond, with more references of thesame nature, which George heard, looking very pale and desperate. 

Upon the mantelpiece stood a china cup, by which the widow set greatstore, as her father had always been accustomed to drink from it. Georgesuddenly took it, and a strange smile passed over his pale face. 

"Stay one minute. Don't go away yet, " he cried to his mother, who wasleaving the room. "You are very fond of this cup, mother?" and Harrylooked at him wondering. "If I broke it, it could never be mended, couldit? My dear old grandpapa's cup! I have been wrong. Mr. Ward, I askpardon. I will try and amend. "

The widow looked at her son indignantly. "I thought, " she said, "Ithought an Esmond had been more of a man than to be afraid, and--" Hereshe gave a little scream, as Harry uttered an exclamation and dashedforward with his hands stretched out towards his brother. 

George, after looking at the cup, raised it, opened his hand and let itfall on the marble slab before him. Harry had tried in vain to catch it. 

"It is too late, Hal, " George said. "You will never mend thatagain--never. Now, mother, I am ready, as it is your wish. Will you comeand see whether I am afraid? Mr. Ward, I am your servant. Your servant?Your slave! And the next time I meet Mr. Washington, Madame, I will thankhim for the advice which he gave you. "

"I say, do your duty, sir!" cried Mrs. Esmond, stamping her little foot. And George, making a low bow to Mr. Ward, begged him to go first out ofthe room to the study. 

"Stop! For God's sake, mother, stop!" cried poor Hal. But passion wasboiling in the little woman's heart, and she would not hear the boy'spetition. "You only abet him, sir!" she cried. "If I had to do itmyself, it should be done!" And Harry, with sadness and wrath in hiscountenance, left the room by the door through which Mr. Ward and hisbrother had just issued. 

The widow sank down in a great chair near it, and sat a while vacantlylooking at the fragments of the broken cup. Then she inclined her headtowards the door. For a while there was silence; then a loud outcry, which made the poor mother start. 

Mr. Ward came out bleeding from a great wound on his head, and behind himHarry, with flaring eyes, and brandishing a little ruler of hisgrandfather, which hung, with others of the Colonel's weapons, on thelibrary wall. 

"I don't care. I did it, " says Harry. "I couldn't see this fellow strikemy brother; and as he lifted his hand, I flung the great ruler at him. Icouldn't help it. I won't bear it; and if one lifts a hand to me or mybrother, I'll have his life, " shouts Harry, brandishing the hanger. 

The widow gave a great gasp and a sigh as she looked at the youngchampion and his victim. She must have suffered terribly during the fewminutes of the boys' absence; and the stripes which she imagined had beeninflicted on the elder had smitten her own heart. She longed to take bothboys to it. She was not angry now. Very likely she was delighted with thethought of the younger's prowess and generosity. "You are a very naughty, disobedient child, " she said in an exceedingly peaceable voice. "My poorMr. Ward! What a rebel to strike you! Let me bathe your wound, my goodMr. Ward, and thank Heaven it was no worse. Mountain! Go fetch me somecourt-plaster. Here comes George. Put on your coat and waistcoat, child!You were going to take your punishment, sir, and that is sufficient. Askpardon, Harry, of good Mr. Ward, for your wicked, rebellious spirit. Ido, with all my heart, I am sure. And guard against your passionatenature, child, and pray to be forgiven. My son, oh my son!"

Here with a burst of tears which she could no longer control thelittle woman threw herself on the neck of her first born, whilst Harrywent up very feebly to Mr. Ward, and said, "Indeed, I ask your pardon, sir. I couldn't help it; on my honour, I couldn't; nor bear to see mybrother struck. "

The widow was scared, as after her embrace she looked up at George's paleface. In reply to her eager caresses, he coldly kissed her on theforehead, and separated from her. "You meant for the best, mother, " hesaid, "and I was in the wrong. But the cup is broken; and all the king'shorses and all the king's men cannot mend it. There--put the fair sideoutwards on the mantelpiece, and the wound will not show. "

Then George went up to Mr. Ward, who was still piteously bathing his eyeand forehead in the water. "I ask pardon for Hal's violence, sir, " hesaid in great state. "You see, though we are very young, we aregentlemen, and cannot brook an insult from strangers. I should havesubmitted, as it was mamma's desire; but I am glad she no longerentertains it. "

"And pray, sir, who is to compensate me?" says Mr. Ward; "who is torepair the insult done to _me_?"

"We are very young, " says George, with another of his old-fashioned bows. "We shall be fifteen soon. Any compensation that is usual amongstgentlemen--"

"This, sir, to a minister of the Word!" bawls out Ward, starting up, andwho knew perfectly well the lad's skill in fence, having a score of timesbeen foiled by the pair of them. 

"You are not a clergyman yet. We thought you might like to be consideredas a gentleman. We did not know. "

"A gentleman! I am a Christian, sir!" says Ward, glaring furiously, andclenching his great fists. 

"Well, well, if you won't fight, why don't you forgive?" says Harry. "Ifyou won't forgive, why don't you fight? That's what I call the horns of adilemma. " And he laughed his jolly laugh. 

But this was nothing to the laugh a few days afterwards, when, thequarrel having been patched up along with poor Mr. Ward's eye, theunlucky tutor was holding forth according to his custom, but in vain. Thewidow wept no more at his harangues, was no longer excited by hiseloquence. Nay, she pleaded headache, and would absent herself of anevening, on which occasions the remainder of the little congregation werevery cold indeed. One day Ward, still making desperate efforts to getback his despised authority, was preaching on the necessity of obeyingour spiritual and temporal rulers. "For why, my dear friends, " he asked, "why are the governors appointed, but that we should be governed? Why aretutors engaged, but that children should be taught?" (Here a look at theboys. ) "Why are rulers--" Here he paused, looking with a sad, puzzledface at the young gentlemen. He saw in their countenances the doublemeaning of the unlucky word he had uttered, and stammered and thumped thetable with his fist. "Why, I say are rulers--rulers--"

"_Rulers_, " says George, looking at Harry. 

"Rulers!" says Hal, putting his hand to his eye, where the poor tutorstill bore marks of the late scuffle. "Rulers, o-ho!" It was too much. The boys burst out in an explosion of laughter. Mrs. Mountain, who wasfull of fun, could not help joining in the chorus; and little FannyMountain, who had always behaved very demurely and silently at theseceremonies, crowed again, and clapped her little hands at the otherslaughing, not in the least knowing the reason why. 

This could not be borne. Ward shut down the book before him; in a fewangry but eloquent and manly words said he would speak no more in thatplace; and left Castlewood not in the least regretted by Madame Esmond, who had doted on him three months before. 

After the departure of her unfortunate spiritual adviser and chaplain, Madame Esmond and her son seemed to be quite reconciled: but althoughGeorge never spoke of the quarrel with his mother, it must have weighedupon the boy's mind very painfully, for he had a fever soon after thelast recounted domestic occurrences, during which illness his brain onceor twice wandered, when he shrieked out, "Broken! Broken! It never, never, can be mended!" to the silent terror of his mother, who satwatching the poor child as he tossed wakeful upon his midnight bed. Thatnight, and for some days afterwards, it seemed very likely that poorHarry would become heir of Castlewood; but by Mr. Dempster's skilfultreatment the fever was got over, the intermittent attacks diminished inintensity, and George was restored almost to health again. A change ofair, a voyage even to England, was recommended, but the widow hadquarrelled with her children's relatives there, which made that tripimpossible. A journey to the north and east was determined upon, and thetwo young gentleman, with Mr. Dempster reinstated as their tutor, and acouple of servants to attend them, took a voyage to New York, and thenceup the beautiful Hudson River to Albany, where they were received by thefirst gentry of the province; and thence into the French provinces, wherethey were hospitably entertained by the French gentry. Harry camped withthe Indians and took furs and shot bears. George, who never cared forfield sports, and whose health was still delicate, was a specialfavourite with the French ladies, who were accustomed to see very fewyoung English gentlemen speaking the French language so readily as ouryoung gentleman. He danced the minuet elegantly. He learned the latestimported French catches and songs and played them beautifully on hisviolin; and to the envy of poor Harry, who was absent on a bear-hunt, heeven had an affair of honour with a young ensign, whom he pinked on theshoulder, and with whom he afterwards swore an eternal friendship. 

When the lads returned home at the end of ten delightful months, theirmother was surprised at their growth and improvement. George especiallywas so grown as to come up to his younger-born brother. The boys couldhardly be distinguished one from another, especially when their hair waspowdered; but that ceremony being too cumbrous for country-life, each ofthe lads commonly wore his own hair, George his raven black, and Harryhis light locks, tied with a ribbon. 

Now Mrs. Mountain had a great turn for match-making, and fancied thateverybody had a design to marry everybody else. As a consequence of thisweakness she was able to persuade George Warrington that Mr. Washingtonwas laying siege to Madame Esmond's heart, which idea was anything butagreeable to George's jealous disposition. 

"I beg you to keep this quiet, Mountain, " said George, with greatdignity. "Or you and I shall quarrel, too. Never to any one must youmention such an absurd suspicion. "

"Absurd! Why absurd? Mr. Washington is constantly with the widow. Shenever tires of pointing out his virtues as an example to her sons. Sheconsults him on every question respecting her estate and its management. There is a room at Castlewood regularly called Mr. Washington's room. He actually leaves his clothes here, and his portmanteau when he goesaway. Ah, George, George! The day will come when he won't go away!"groaned Mrs. Mountain, and in consequence of the suspicions which herwords aroused in him Mr. George adopted toward his mother's favourite afrigid courtesy, at which the honest gentleman chafed but did not care toremonstrate; or a stinging sarcasm which he would break through as hewould burst through so many brambles on those hunting excursions in whichhe and Harry Warrington rode so constantly together; while George, retreating to his tents, read mathematics and French and Latin, or sulkedin his book-room. 

Harry was away from home with some other sporting friends when Mr. Washington came to pay a visit at Castlewood. He was so peculiarlytender and kind to the mistress there, and received by her with suchspecial cordiality, that George Warrington's jealousy had well-nighbroken out into open rupture. But the visit was one of adieu, as itappeared. Major Washington was going on a long and dangerous journey, quite to the western Virginia frontier and beyond it. The French hadbeen for some time past making inroads into our territory. Thegovernment at home, as well as those of Virginia and Pennsylvania, werealarmed at this aggressive spirit of the lords of Canada and Louisiana. Some of our settlers had already been driven from their holdings byFrenchmen in arms, and the governors of the British provinces weredesirous of stopping their incursions, or at any rate to protest againsttheir invasion. 

We chose to hold our American colonies by a law that was at leastconvenient for its framers. The maxim was, that whoever possessed thecoast had a right to all the territory in hand as far as the Pacific; sothat the British charters only laid down the limits of the colonies fromnorth to south, leaving them quite free from east to west. The French, meanwhile, had their colonies to the north and south, and aimed atconnecting them by the Mississippi and the St. Lawrence, and the greatintermediate lakes and waters lying to the westward of the Britishpossessions. In the year 1748, though peace was signed between the twoEuropean kingdoms, the colonial question remained unsettled, to be openedagain when either party should be strong enough to urge it. In the year1753 it came to an issue on the Ohio River where the British and Frenchsettlers met. 

A company called the Ohio Company, having grants from the Virginiagovernment of lands along that river, found themselves invaded in theirsettlement's by French military detachments, who roughly ejected theBritons from their holdings. These latter applied for protection to Mr. Dinwiddie, lieutenant governor of Virginia, who determined upon sendingan ambassador to the French commanding officer on the Ohio demanding thatthe French should desist from their inroads upon the territories of hisMajesty King George. 

Young Mr. Washington jumped eagerly at the chance of distinction whichthis service afforded him, and volunteered to leave his home and hisrural and professional pursuits in Virginia, to carry the governor'smessage to the French officer. Taking a guide, an interpreter, and a fewattendants, and following the Indian tracks, in the fall of the year 1753the intrepid young envoy made his way from Williamsburg almost to theshores of Lake Erie, and found the French commander at Fort Le Boeuf. That officer's reply was brief; his orders were to hold the place anddrive all the English from it. The French avowed their intention oftaking possession of the Ohio. And with this rough answer the messengerfrom Virginia had to return through danger and difficulty, across lonelyforest and frozen river, shaping his course by the compass, and campingat night in the snow by the forest fires. 

On his return from this expedition, which he had conducted with an heroicenergy and simplicity, Major Washington was a greater favourite than everwith the lady of Castlewood. She pointed him out as a model to both ofher sons. "Ah, Harry!" she would say, "think of you, with yourcock-fighting and your racing matches, and the Major away there in thewilderness, watching the French, and battling with the frozen rivers! Ah, George! learning may be a very good thing, but I wish my elder son weredoing something in the service of his country!"

Mr. Washington on his return home began at once raising such a regimentas, with the scanty pay and patronage of the Virginian government, hecould get together, and proposed with the help of these men-of-war to puta more peremptory veto upon the French invaders than the solitaryambassador had been enabled to lay. A small force under another officer, Colonel Trent, had already been despatched to the west, with orders tofortify themselves so as to be able to resist any attack of the enemy. The French troops greatly outnumbering ours, came up with the Englishoutposts, who were fortifying themselves at a place on the confines ofPennsylvania where the great city of Pittsburg now stands. A Virginianofficer with but forty men was in no condition to resist twenty timesthat number of Canadians who appeared before his incomplete works. He wassuffered to draw back without molestation; and the French, takingpossession of his fort, strengthened it and christened it by the name ofthe Canadian governor, Du Quesne. Up to this time no actual blow of warhad been struck. It was strange that in a savage forest of Pennsylvania ayoung Virginian officer should fire a shot and waken up a war which wasto last for sixty years, which was to cover his own country and pass intoEurope, to cost France her American colonies, to sever ours from us, andcreate the great Western Republic; to rage over the old world whenextinguished in the new; and of all the myriads engaged in the vastcontest, to leave the prize of the greatest fame with him who struck thefirst blow!

He little knew of the fate in store for him. A simple gentleman, anxiousto serve his king and do his duty, he volunteered for the first service, and executed it with admirable fidelity. In the ensuing year he took thecommand of the small body of provincial troops with which he marched torepel the Frenchmen. He came up with their advanced guard and fired uponthem, killing their leader. After this he had himself to fall back withhis troops, and was compelled to capitulate to the superior Frenchforce. On the 4th of July, 1754, the Colonel marched out with his troopsfrom the little fort where he had hastily entrenched himself, and whichthey called Fort Necessity, gave up the place to the conqueror, and tookhis way home. 

His command was over, his regiment disbanded after the fruitless, inglorious march and defeat. Saddened and humbled in spirit, the youngofficer presented himself after a while to his old friends at Castlewood. 

But surely no man can have better claims to sympathy than bravery, youth, good looks, and misfortune. Mr. Washington's room at Castlewood was morethan ever Mr. Washington's room now. Madame Esmond raved about him andpraised him in all her companies. She more than ever pointed out hisexcellences to her sons, contrasting his sterling qualities with Harry'slove of pleasure and George's listless musing over his books. George wasnot disposed to like Mr. Washington any better for his mother'sextravagant praises. He coaxed the jealous demon within him until he musthave become a perfect pest to himself and all his friends round abouthim. He uttered jokes so deep that his simple mother did not know theirmeaning, but sat bewildered at his sarcasms. 

Meanwhile the quarrel between the French and English North Americans, from being a provincial, had grown to be a national quarrel. Reinforcements from France had already arrived in Canada, and Englishtroops were expected in Virginia. It was resolved to wrest from theFrench all the conquests they had made upon British dominion. A couple ofregiments were raised and paid by the king in America, and a fleet with acouple more was despatched from home under an experienced commander. InFebruary, 1755, Commodore Keppel, in the famous ship "Centurion, "anchored in Hampton Roads with two ships of war under his command, andhaving on board General Braddock, his staff, and a part of his troops. Mr. Braddock was appointed by the Duke. A fleet of transports speedilyfollowed him bringing stores, and men and money in plenty. 

The arrival of the General and his little army caused a mighty excitementall through the provinces, and nowhere greater than at Castlewood. Harrywas off forthwith to see the troops under canvas at Alexandria. The sightof their lines delighted him, and the inspiring music of their fifes anddrums. He speedily made acquaintance with the officers of both regiments;he longed to join in the expedition upon which they were bound, and wasa welcome guest at their mess. 

We may be sure that the arrival of the army and the approaching campaignformed the subject of continued conversation in the Castlewood family. Tomake the campaign was the dearest wish of Harry's life. He dreamed onlyof war and battle; he was forever with the officers at Williamsburg; hescoured and cleaned and polished all the guns and swords in the house; herenewed the amusements of his childhood and had the negroes under arms, but eager as he was to be a soldier, he scarcely dared touch on thesubject with George, for he saw to his infinite terror how George, too, was occupied with military matters, and having a feudal attachment forhis elder brother, and worshipping him with an extravagant regard, hegave way in all things to him as the chief, and felt that should Georgewish to make the campaign he would submit. He took note that George hadall the military books of his grandfather brought down from hisbook-shelves, and that he and Dempster were practising with the foilsagain; and he soon found that his fears were true. Mr. Franklin ofPhiladelphia, having heard that Madame Esmond had beeves and horses andstores in plenty, which might be useful to General Braddock, recommendedthe General to conciliate her by inviting her sons to dinner, which he atonce did. The General and the gentlemen of his family made much of them, and they returned home delighted with their entertainment; and so pleasedwas their mother at the civility shown them that she at once penned abillet thanking his Excellency for his politeness, and begging him to fixthe time when she might have the honour of receiving him at Castlewood. 

Madame Esmond made her boys bearers of the letter in reply to hisExcellency's message, accompanying her note with handsome presents forthe General's staff and officers, which they were delighted to accept. 

"Would not one of the young gentlemen like to see the campaign?" theGeneral asked. "A friend of theirs, who often spoke of them--Mr. Washington, who had been unlucky in the affair of last year--had alreadypromised to join him as aide-de-camp, and his Excellency would gladlytake another young Virginian gentleman into his family. "

Harry's eyes brightened and his face flushed at this offer. He would likewith all his heart to go, he cried out. George said, looking hard at hisyounger brother, that one of them would be proud to attend hisExcellency, whilst it would be the other's duty to take care of theirmother at home. Harry allowed his senior to speak. However much hedesired to go, he would not pronounce until George had declared himself. He longed so for the campaign that the actual wish made him timid. Hedared not speak on the matter as he went home with George. They rode formiles in silence, or strove to talk upon indifferent subjects, eachknowing what was passing in the other's mind, and afraid to bring theawful question to an issue. 

On their arrival at home the boys told their mother of GeneralBraddock's offer. 

"I know it must happen, " she said; "at such a crisis in the country ourfamily must come forward. Have you--have you settled yet which of you isto leave me?" and she looked anxiously from one to another, dreading tohear either name. 

"The youngest ought to go, mother; of course I ought to go!" cries Harry, turning very red. 

"Of course, he ought, " said Mrs. Mountain, who was present at their talk. 

"The head of the family ought to go, mother, " says George, adding: "Youwould make the best soldier, I know that, dearest Hal. You and GeorgeWashington are great friends, and could travel well together, and he doesnot care for me, nor I for him, however much he is admired in the family. But, you see, 'tis the law of honour, my Harry. I must go. Had fate givenyou the benefit of that extra half hour of life which I have had beforeyou, it would have been your lot, and you would have claimed your rightto go first, you know you would. "

"Yes, George, " said poor Harry; "I own I should. "

"You will stay at home, and take care of Castlewood and our mother. Ifanything happens to me, you are here to fill my place. I should like togive way, my dear, as you, I know, would lay down your life to serve me. But each of us must do his duty. What would our grandfather say if hewere here?"

The mother looked proudly at her two sons. "My papa would say that hisboys were gentlemen, " faltered Madame Esmond, and left the young men, notchoosing perhaps to show the emotion which was filling her heart. It wasspeedily known amongst the servants that Mr. George was going on thecampaign. Dinah, George's foster-mother, was loud in her lamentations atlosing him; Phillis, Harry's old nurse, was as noisy, because MasterGeorge, as usual, was preferred over Master Harry. Sady, George'sservant, made preparations to follow his master, bragging incessantly ofthe deeds which he would do; while Gumbo, Harry's boy, pretended towhimper at being left behind, though at home Gumbo was anything but afire-eater. 

But of all in the house Mrs. Mountain was the most angry at George'sdetermination to go on the campaign. She begged, implored, insisted thathe should alter his determination; voted that nothing but mischief wouldcome from his departure; and finally suggested that it was his duty toremain at home to protect his mother from the advances of ColonelWashington, whom she assured him she believed to desire a rich wife, andthat if George would go away he would come back to find George Washingtonmaster of Castlewood. As a proof of what she said she produced part of aletter written by Colonel Washington to his brother, in which his wordsseemed to the romantic Mrs. Mountain to bear out her belief. Thisfragment, which she had found in the Colonel's room and with none toomuch honesty appropriated, she now showed to George, who after gazing atthe document gave her a frightful look, saying, "I--I will return thispaper to Mr. Washington. " Mrs. Mountain was thoroughly scared then atwhat she had done and said, but it could not be taken back, so she wasobliged to adjust herself to taking in good part whatever consequencesmight come of her dishonest act. 

On the day set for Madame Esmond's entertainment to General Braddock theHouse of Castlewood was set out with the greatest splendour; and MadameEsmond arrayed herself in a much more magnificent dress than she wasaccustomed to wear, while the boys were dressed alike in gold-cordedfrocks, braided waistcoats, silver-hilted sword, and wore each asolitaire. 

The General's new aide-de-camp was the first guest to arrive, and he andhis hostess paced the gallery for some time. She had much to say to him, and also to hear from him a confirmation of his appointment asaide-de-camp to General Braddock, and to speak of her son's approachingdeparture. At length they descended the steps down to the rough lawn infront of the house, and presently the little lady re-entered hermansion, leaning upon Mr. Washington's arm. Here they were joined byGeorge, who came to them accurately powdered and richly attired, salutinghis parent and his friend alike with respectful bows, according to thefashion of that time. 

But George, though he made the lowest possible bow to Mr. Washington andhis mother, was by no means in good humour with either of them, and inall his further conversation that day with Colonel Washington showed abitter sarcasm and a depth of innuendo which the Colonel was at a loss tounderstand. A short time after George's entrance into the Colonel'spresence Harry answered back a remark of George's to the effect that hehated sporting by saying, "I say one thing, George. "

"Say twenty things, Don Enrico, " cries the other. 

"If you are not fond of sporting and that, being cleverer than me, whyshouldst thou not stop at home and be quiet, and let me go out withColonel George and Mr. Braddock? That's what I say, " says Harry, flushingwith excitement. 

"One of our family must go because honour obliges it, and my name beingnumber one, number one must go first, " says George, adding, "One muststay, or who is to look after mother at home? We cannot afford to be bothscalped by Indians or fricasseed by French. "

"Fricasseed by French, " cries Harry; "the best troops of the world areEnglishmen. I should like to see them fricasseed by the French! what amortal thrashing you will give them!" and the brave lad sighed to thinkhe should not be present at the combat. 

George sat down to the harpsichord and was playing when the Colonelre-entered, saying that his Excellency's coach would be here almostimmediately, and asking leave to retire to his apartment, to put himselfin a fit condition to appear before her ladyship's company. As the widowwas conducting Mr. Washington to his chamber, George gave way to a fit ofwrath, ending in an explanation to his astonished brother of the reasonof it, and telling him of Mrs. Mountain's suspicions concerning theColonel's attitude towards their mother, which he confirmed by showingHarry the letter of Colonel Washington's which Mrs. Mountain had foundand preserved. 

But to go back to Madame Esmond's feast for his Excellency; all the birdsof the Virginia air, and all the fish of the sea in season, and all themost famous dishes for which Madame Esmond was famous, and the best winewhich her cellar boasted, were laid on the little widow's board to feedher distinguished guest and the other gentlemen who accompanied him. Thekind mistress of Castlewood looked so gay and handsome and spoke withsuch cheerfulness and courage to all her company that the few ladies whowere present could not but congratulate Madame Esmond upon the eleganceof the feast and upon her manner of presiding at it. But they werescarcely in the drawing-room, when her artificial courage failed her, andshe burst into tears, exclaiming, "Ah, it may be an honour to have Mr. Braddock in my house, but he comes to take one of my sons away from me. Who knows whether my boy will return, or how? I dreamed of him last nightas wounded, with blood streaming from his side. "

Meanwhile Mr. Washington was pondering deeply upon George's peculiarbehaviour towards him. The tone of freedom and almost impertinence whichyoung George had adopted of late towards Mr. Washington had very deeplyvexed and annoyed that gentleman. There was scarce half a dozen years'difference of age between him and the Castlewood twins; but Mr. Washington had always been remarked for a discretion and sobriety muchbeyond his time of life, whilst the boys of Castlewood seemed youngerthan theirs. They had always been till now under their mother's anxioustutelage, and had looked up to their neighbour of Mount Vernon as theirguide, director, friend, as, indeed, almost everybody seemed to do whocame in contact with the simple and upright young man. Himself of themost scrupulous gravity and good-breeding, in his communication withother folks he appeared to exact, or, at any rate, to occasion, the samebehaviour. His nature was above levity and jokes: they seemed out ofplace when addressed to him. He was slow of comprehending them: and theyslunk as it were abashed out of his society. "He always seemed great tome, " says Harry Warrington, in one of his letters many years after thedate of which we are writing; "and I never thought of him otherwise thanas a hero. When he came over to Castlewood and taught us boys surveying, to see him riding to hounds was as if he was charging an army. If hefired a shot, I thought the bird must come down, and if he flung a net, the largest fish in the river were sure to be in it. His words werealways few, but they were always wise; they were not idle, as our wordsare; they were grave, sober and strong, and ready on occasion to do theirduty. In spite of his antipathy to him, my brother respected and admiredthe General as much as I did--that is to say, more than any mortal man. "

Mr. Washington was the first to leave the jovial party which were doingso much honour to Madame Esmond's hospitality. Young George Esmond, whohad taken his mother's place when she left the dining-room, had been freewith the glass and with the tongue. He had said a score of things to hisguest which wounded and chafed the latter, and to which Mr. Washingtoncould give no reply. Angry beyond all endurance, he left the table atlength, and walked away through the open windows into the broad verandaor porch which belonged to Castlewood as to all Virginian houses. 

Here Madame Esmond caught sight of her friend's tall frame as it strodeup and down before the windows; and gave up her cards to one of the otherladies, and joined her good neighbour out of doors. He tried to composehis countenance as well as he could, but found it so difficult thatpresently she asked, "Why do you look so grave?"

"Indeed, to be frank with you, I do not know what has come over George, "says Mr. Washington. "He has some grievance against me which I do notunderstand, and of which I don't care to ask the reason. He spoke to mebefore the gentlemen in a way which scarcely became him. We are going tothe campaign together, and 'tis a pity we begin such ill friends. "

"He has been ill. He is always wild and wayward and hard to understand, but he has the most affectionate heart in the world. You will bear withhim, you will protect him. Promise you will. "

"Dear lady, I will do so with my life, " Mr. Washington said heartily. "You know I would lay it down cheerfully for you or any you love. "

"And my father's blessing and mine go with you, dear friend!" criedthe widow. 

As they talked, they had quitted the porch and were pacing a walk beforethe house. Young George Warrington, from his place at the head of thetable in the dining-room, could see them, and after listening in a verydistracted manner for some time to the remarks of the gentlemen aroundhim, he jumped up and pulled his brother Harry by the sleeve, turning himso that he, too, could see his mother and the Colonel. 

Somewhat later, when General Braddock and the other guests had retired totheir apartments, the boys went to their own room, and there poured outto one another their opinions respecting the great event of the day. Theywould not bear such a marriage--No. Was the representative of the Marquisof Esmond to marry the younger son of a colonial family, who had beenbred up as a land surveyor--Castlewood and the boys at nineteen years ofage handed over to the tender mercies of a step-father of three andtwenty? Oh, it was monstrous! Harry was for going straightway to hismother, protesting against the odious match, and announcing that theywould leave her forever if the marriage took place. 

George had another plan for preventing it, which he explained to hisadmiring brother. "Our mother, " he said, "can't marry a man with whom oneor both of us has been out on the field, and who has wounded us or killedus, or whom we have wounded or killed. We must have him out, Harry. "

Harry saw the profound truth conveyed in George's statement, and admiredhis brother's immense sagacity. "No, George, " says he, "you are right. Mother can't marry our murderer; she won't be as bad as that. And if wepink him, he is done for. Shall I send my boy with a challenge to ColonelGeorge now?"

"We can't insult a gentleman in our own house, " said George with greatmajesty; "the laws of honour forbid such inhospitable treatment. But, sir, we can ride out with him, and, as soon as the park gates are closed, we can tell him our mind. "

"That we can, by George!" cries Harry, grasping his brother's hand, "andthat we will, too. I say, Georgie--" Here the lad's face became veryred, and his brother asked him what he would say. 

"This is _my_ turn, brother, " Harry pleaded. "If you go to the campaign, I ought to have the other affair. Indeed, indeed, I ought. " And he prayedfor this bit of promotion. 

"Again the head of the house must take the lead, my dear, " George saidwith a superb air. "If I fall, my Harry will avenge me. But I must fightGeorge Washington, Hal; and 'tis best I should; for, indeed, I hate himthe worst. Was it not he who counselled my mother to order that wretch, Ward, to lay hands on me?"

"Colonel Washington is my enemy especially. He has advised one wrongagainst me, and he meditates a greater. I tell you, brother, we mustpunish him. "

The grandsire's old Bordeaux had set George's ordinarily pale countenanceinto a flame. Harry, his brother's fondest worshipper, could not butadmire George's haughty bearing and rapid declamation, and preparedhimself, with his usual docility, to follow his chief. So the boys wentto their beds, the elder conveying special injunctions to his junior tobe civil to all the guests so long as they remained under the maternalroof on the morrow. 

The widow, occupied as she had been with the cares of a great dinner, followed by a great breakfast on the morning ensuing, had scarce leisureto remark the behaviour of her sons very closely, but at least saw thatGeorge was scrupulously polite to her favourite, Colonel Washington, asto all the other guests of the house. 

Before Mr. Braddock took his leave he had a private audience with MadameEsmond, in which his Excellency formally arranged to take her son intohis family; after which the jolly General good-naturedly shook handswith George, and bade George welcome and to be in attendance atFrederick three days hence; shortly after which time the expeditionwould set forth. 

And now the great coach was again called into requisition, theGeneral's escort pranced round it, the other guests and their servantswent to horse. 

As the boys went up the steps, there was the Colonel once more takingleave of their mother. No doubt she had been once more recommendingGeorge to his namesake's care; for Colonel Washington said: "With mylife. You may depend on me, " as the lads returned to their mother and thefew guests still remained in the porch. The Colonel was booted and readyto depart. "Farewell, my dear Harry, " he said. "With you, George, 'tis noadieu. We shall meet in three days at the camp. "

George Warrington watched his mother's emotion, and interpreted it witha pang of malignant scorn. "Stay yet a moment, and console our mamma, "he said with a steady countenance, "only the time to get ourselvesbooted, and my brother and I will ride with you a little way, George. "George Warrington had already ordered his horses. The three young menwere speedily under way, their negro grooms behind them, and Mrs. Mountain, who knew she had made mischief between them and trembled forthe result, felt a vast relief that Mr. Washington was gone without aquarrel with the brothers, without, at any rate, an open declaration oflove to their mother. 

No man could be more courteous in demeanour than George Warrington to hisneighbour and name-sake, the Colonel, who was pleased and surprised athis young friend's altered behaviour. The community of danger, thenecessity of future fellowship, the softening influence of the longfriendship which bound him to the Esmond family, the tender adieux whichhad just passed between him and the mistress of Castlewood, inclined theColonel to forget the unpleasantness of the past days, and made him morethan usually friendly with his young companion. George was quite gay andeasy: it was Harry who was melancholy now; he rode silently and wistfullyby his brother, keeping away from Colonel Washington, to whose side heused always to press eagerly before. If the honest Colonel remarked hisyoung friend's conduct, no doubt he attributed it to Harry's knownaffection for his brother, and his natural anxiety to be with George nowthe day of their parting was so near. 

They talked further about the war, and the probable end of the campaign;none of the three doubted its successful termination. Two thousandveteran British troops with their commander must get the better of anyforce the French could bring against them. The ardent young Virginiansoldier had an immense respect for the experienced valour and tactics ofthe regular troops. King George II. Had no more loyal subject than Mr. Braddock's new aide-de-camp. 

So the party rode amicably together, until they reached a certain rudelog-house, called Benson's, where they found a rough meal prepared forsuch as were disposed to partake. 

A couple of Halkett's officers, whom our young gentlemen knew, weresitting under the porch, with the Virginian toddy bowl before them, andthe boys joined them and sent for glasses and more toddy, in a verygrown-up manner. 

George called out to Colonel Washington, who was at the porch, to joinhis friends and drink, with the intention of drawing Mr. Washington intosome kind of a disagreement. 

The lad's tone was offensive, and resembled the manner lately adopted byhim, which had so much chafed Mr. Washington. He bowed, and said he wasnot thirsty. 

"Nay, the liquor is paid for, " says George; "never fear, Colonel. "

"I said I was not thirsty. I did not say the liquor was not paid for, "said the young Colonel, drumming with his foot. 

"When the King's health is proposed, an officer can hardly say no. Idrink the health of his Majesty, gentlemen, " cried George. "ColonelWashington can drink it or leave it. The King!"

This was a point of military honour. The two British officers ofHalkett's, Captain Grace and Mr. Waring, both drank "The King. " HarryWarrington drank "The King. " Colonel Washington, with glaring eyes, gulped, too, a slight draught from the bowl. 

Then Captain Grace proposed "The Duke and the Army, " which toast therewas likewise no gainsaying. Colonel Washington had to swallow "The Dukeand the Army. "

"You don't seem to stomach the toast, Colonel, " said George. 

"I tell you again, I don't want to drink, " replied the Colonel. "It seemsto me the Duke and the Army would be served all the better if theirhealths were not drunk so often. "

"A British officer, " said Captain Grace, with doubtful articulation, "never neglects a toast of that sort, nor any other duty. A man whorefuses to drink the health of the Duke--hang me, such a man should betried by a court-martial!"

"What means this language to me? You are drunk, sir!" roared ColonelWashington, jumping up and striking the table with his first. 

"A cursed provincial officer say I'm drunk!" shrieks out Captain Grace. "Waring, do you hear that?"

"_I_ heard it, sir!" cried George Warrington. "We all heard it. Weentered at my invitation--the liquor called for was mine; the tablewas mine--and I am shocked to hear such monstrous language used at itas Colonel Washington has just employed towards my esteemed guest, Captain Waring. "

"Confound your impudence, you infernal young jackanapes!" bellowed outColonel Washington. "_You_ dare to insult me before British officers, andfind fault with my language? For months past I have borne with suchimpudence from you, that if I had not loved your mother--yes, sir, andyour good grandfather and your brother--I would--" Here his wordsfailed him, and the irate Colonel, with glaring eyes and purple face, andevery limb quivering with wrath, stood for a moment speechless before hisyoung enemy. 

"You would what, sir, " says George, very quietly, "if you did not lovemy grandfather, and my brother, and my mother? You are making herpetticoat a plea for some conduct of yours! You would do what, sir, mayI ask again?"

"I would put you across my knee and whip you, you snarling little puppy!That's what I would do!" cried the Colonel, who had found breath by thistime, and vented another explosion of fury. 

"Because you have known us all our lives, and made our house your own, that is no reason why you should insult either of us!" here cried Harry, starting up. "What you have said, George Washington, is an insult to meand my brother alike. You will ask our pardon, sir!"

"Pardon!"

"Or give us the reparation that is due to gentlemen, " continues Harry. 

The stout Colonel's heart smote him to think that he should be at mortalquarrel, or called upon to shed the blood of one of the lads he loved. AsHarry stood facing him, with his fair hair, flushing cheeks, andquivering voice, an immense tenderness and kindness filled the bosom ofthe elder man. "I--I am bewildered, " he said. "My words, perhaps, werevery hasty. What has been the meaning of George's behaviour to me formonths back? Only tell me, and, perhaps--"

The evil spirit was awake and victorious in young George Warrington; hisblack eyes shot out scorn and hatred at the simple and guilelessgentleman before him. "You are shirking from the question, sir, as youdid from the toast just now, " he said. "I am not a boy to suffer underyour arrogance. You have publicly insulted me in a public place, and Idemand a reparation. "

"As you please, George Warrington--and God forgive you, George! Godpardon you, Harry! for bringing me into this quarrel, " said the Colonel, with a face full of sadness and gloom. 

Harry hung his head, but George continued with perfect calmness: "I, sir?It was not I who called names, who talked of a cane, who insulted agentleman in a public place before the gentlemen of the army. It is notthe first time you have chosen to take me for a negro, and talked of thewhip for me. "

The Colonel started back, turning very red, and as if struck by a suddenremembrance. 

"Great heavens, George! is it that boyish quarrel you are stillrecalling?"

"Who made you overseer of Castlewood?" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "I am not your slave, George Washington, and I never will be. I hated youthen, and I hate you now. And you have insulted me, and I am a gentleman, and so are you. Is that not enough?"

"Too much, only too much, " said the Colonel, with a genuine grief on hisface, and at his heart "Do you bear malice, too, Harry? I had not thoughtthis of thee!"

"I stand by my brother, " said Harry, turning away from the Colonel'slook, and grasping George's hand. The sadness on their adversary's facedid not depart. "Heaven be good to us! 'Tis all clear now, " he mutteredto himself. "The time to write a few letters, and I am at your service, Mr. Warrington, " he said. 

"You have your own pistols at your saddle. I did not ride out with any;but will send Sady back for mine. That will give you time enough, ColonelWashington?"

"Plenty of time, sir. " And each gentleman made the other a low bow, and, putting his arm in his brother's, George walked away. The Virginianofficer looked towards Captain Benson, the master of the tavern, saying, "Captain Benson, you are an old frontier man, and an officer of ours, before you turned farmer and taverner. You will help me in this matterwith yonder young gentleman?" said the Colonel. 

"I'll stand by and see fair play, Colonel. I won't have any hand in it, beyond seeing fair play. You ain't a-goin' to be very hard with them poorboys? Though I seen 'em both shoot; the fair one hunts well, as youknow, but the old one's a wonder at an ace of spades. "

"Will you be pleased to send my man with my valise, Captain, into anyprivate room which you can spare me? I must write a few letters beforethis business comes on. God grant it were well over!" And the Captain ledthe Colonel into a room of his house where he remained occupied withgloomy preparations for the ensuing meeting. His adversary in the otherroom also thought fit to make his testamentary dispositions, too, dictated by his own obedient brother and secretary, a grandiloquentletter to his mother, of whom, and by that writing, he took a solemnfarewell. She would hardly, he supposed, pursue _the scheme which she hadin view_, after the event of that morning, should he fall, as probablywould be the case. 

"My dear, dear George, don't say that!" cried the affrighted secretary. 

"As probably will be the case, " George persisted with great majesty. "Youknow what a good shot Colonel George is, Harry. I, myself, am pretty fairat a mark, and 'tis probable that one or both of us will drop--I scarcelysuppose you will carry out the intentions you have at present in view. "This was uttered in a tone of still greater bitterness than George hadused even in the previous phrase, and he added in a tone of surprise:"Why, Harry, what have you been writing, and who taught thee to spell?"Harry had written the last words "in view, " in _vew_, and a great blot ofsalt water from his honest, boyish eyes may have obliterated some otherbad spelling. 

"I can't think about the spelling now, Georgy, " whimpered George's clerk. "I'm too miserable for that. I begin to think, perhaps, it's allnonsense; perhaps Colonel George never--"

"Never meant to take possession of Castlewood; never gave himself airs, and patronised us there; never advised my mother to have me flogged;never intended to marry her; never insulted me, and was insulted beforethe King's officers; never wrote to his brother to say that we should bethe better for his parental authority? The paper is there, " cried theyoung man, slapping his breast-pocket, "and if anything happens to me, Harry Warrington, you will find it on my corpse!"

"Write, yourself, Georgie, I _can't_ write, " says Harry, digging hisfists into his eyes, and smearing over the whole composition, badspelling and all, with his elbows. 

On this, George, taking another sheet of paper, sat down at his brother'splace, and produced a composition in which he introduced the longestwords, the grandest Latin quotations, and the most profound satire ofwhich the youthful scribe was master. He desired that his negro boy, Sady, should be set free; that his "Horace, " a choice of his books, and, if possible, a suitable provision should be made for his affectionatetutor, Mr. Dempster; that his silver fruit-knife, his music-books, andharpischord should be given to little Fannie Mountain; and that hisbrother should take a lock of his hair, and wear it in memory of his everfond and faithfully attached George. And he sealed the document with theseal of arms that his grandfather had worn. 

"The watch, of course, will be yours, " said George, taking out hisgrandfather's gold watch and looking at it. "Why, two hours and a halfare gone! 'Tis time that Sady should be back with the pistols. Take thewatch, Harry, dear. "

"It's no good!" cried out Harry, flinging his arms round his brother. "Ifhe fights you, I'll fight him, too. If he kills my Georgie, he shallhave a shot at me!" cried the poor lad. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Washington had written five letters in his large resolutehand, and sealed them with his seal. One was to his mother, at MountVernon; one to his brother; one was addressed M. C. Only; and one to hisExcellency, Major-General Braddock. "And one, young gentlemen, is foryour mother, Madame Esmond, " said the boys' informant. 

It was the landlord of the tavern who communicated these facts to theyoung men. The Captain had put on his old militia uniform to do honour tothe occasion, and informed the boys that the "Colonel was walking up anddown the garden a-waiting for 'em, and that the Reg'lars was a'mostsober, too, by this time. "

A plot of ground near the Captain's log house had been enclosed withshingles, and cleared for a kitchen-garden; there indeed paced ColonelWashington, his hands behind his back, his head bowed down, a gravesorrow on his handsome face. The negro servants were crowded at thepalings and looking over. The officers under the porch had wakened upalso, as their host remarked. 

There, then, stalked the tall young Colonel, plunged in dismalmeditation. There was no way out of his scrape, but the usual cruel one, which the laws of honour and the practice of the country ordered. Goadedinto fury by the impertinence of a boy, he had used insulting words. Theyoung man had asked for reparation. He was shocked to think that GeorgeWarrington's jealousy and revenge should have rankled in the young fellowso long; but the wrong had been the Colonel's, and he was bound to paythe forfeit. 

A great hallooing and shouting, such as negroes use, who love noise atall times, was now heard at a distance, and all heads were turned in thedirection of this outcry. It came from the road over which our travellershad themselves passed three hours before, and presently the clattering ofa horse's hoofs was heard, and now Mr. Sady made his appearance on hisfoaming horse. Presently he was in the court-yard, and was dismounting. 

"Sady, sir, come here!" roars out Master Harry. 

"Sady, come here, confound you!" shouts Master George. 

"Come directly, Mas'r, " says Sady. He grins. He takes the pistols out ofthe holster. He snaps the locks. He points them at a grunter, whichplunges through the farm-yard. He points down the road, over which he hasjust galloped, and says again, "Comin', Mas'r. Everybody a-comin'. " Andnow, the gallop of other horses is heard. And who is yonder? Little Mr. Dempster, spurring and digging into his pony; and that lady in ariding-habit on Madame Esmond's little horse--can it be Madame Esmond?No. It is too stout. As I live it is Mrs. Mountain on Madame's grey!"

"O Lor'! O Golly! Hoop! Here dey come! Hurray!"

Dr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain having clattered into the yard, jumpedfrom their horses, and ran to the garden where George and Harry werewalking, their tall enemy stalking opposite to them; and almost ereGeorge Warrington had time sternly to say, "What do you here, Madame?"Mrs. Mountain flung her arms round his neck and cried: "Oh, George, mydarling! It's a mistake! It's a mistake, and is all my fault!"

"What's a mistake?" asks George, majestically separating himself fromthe embrace. 

"What is it, Mounty?" cries Harry, all of a tremble. 

"That paper I took out of his portfolio, that paper I picked up, children; where the Colonel says he is going to marry a widow with twochildren. Well, it's--it's not your mother. It's that little Widow Custiswhom the Colonel is going to marry. It's not Mrs. Rachel Warrington. Hetold Madame so to-day, just before he was going away, and that themarriage was to come off after the campaign. And--and your mother isfurious, boys. And when Sady came for the pistols, and told the wholehouse how you were going to fight, I told him to fire the pistols off;and I galloped after him, and I've nearly broken my poor old bones incoming to you. "

"What will Mr. Washington and those gentlemen think of my servanttelling my mother at home that I was going to fight a duel?" growled Mr. George in wrath. 

"You should have shown your proofs before, George, " says Harry, respectfully. "And, thank Heaven, you are not going to fight our oldfriend. For it was a mistake; and there is no quarrel now, dear, isthere? You were unkind to him under a wrong impression. "

"I certainly acted under a wrong impression, " owns George, "but--"

"George! George Washington!" Harry here cries out, springing over thecabbage garden towards the bowling-green, where the Colonel was stalking, and though we cannot hear him, we see him, with both his hands out, andwith the eagerness of youth, and with a hundred blunders, and with loveand affection thrilling in his honest voice, we imagine the lad tellinghis tale to his friend. 

There was a custom in those days which has disappeared from our mannersnow, but which then lingered. 

When Harry had finished his artless story his friend the Colonel tookhim fairly to his arms, and held him to his heart; and his voice falteredas he said, "Thank God, thank God for this!"

"Oh, George, " said Harry, who felt now he loved his friend with all hisheart, "how I wish I was going with you on the campaign!" The otherpressed both the boy's hands in a grasp of friendship, which, each knew, never would slacken. 

Then the Colonel advanced, gravely holding out his hand to Harry's elderbrother. But, though hands were joined, the salutation was only formaland stern on both sides. 

"I find I have done you a wrong, Colonel Washington, " George said, "andmust apologise, not for the error, but for much of my late behaviour, which has resulted from it. "

"The error was mine! It was I who found that paper in your room andshowed it to George, and was jealous of you, Colonel. All women arejealous, " cried Mrs. Mountain. 

"'Tis a pity you could not have kept your eyes off my paper, Madame, "said Mr. Washington. "You will permit me to say so. A great deal ofmischief has come because I chose to keep a secret which concerned onlymyself and another person. For a long time George Warrington's heart hasbeen black with anger against me, and my feeling towards him has, I own, scarce been more friendly. All this pain might have been spared to bothof us had my private papers only been read by those for whom they werewritten. I shall say no more now, lest my feelings again should betray meinto hasty words. Heaven bless thee, Harry! Farewell, George! And take atrue friend's advice, and try to be less ready to think evil of yourfriends. We shall meet again at the camp, and will keep our weapons forthe enemy. Gentlemen! if you remember this scene tomorrow, you will knowwhere to find me. " And with a very stately bow to the English officers, the Colonel left the abashed company, and speedily rode away. 

We must fancy that the parting between the brothers is over, that Georgehas taken his place in Mr. Braddock's family, and Harry has returned hometo Castlewood and his duty. His heart is with the army, and his pursuitsat home offer the boy no pleasure. He does not care to own how deep hisdisappointment is, at being obliged to stay under the homely, quiet roof, now more melancholy than ever since George is away. Harry passes hisbrother's empty chamber with an averted face; takes George's place at thehead of the table, and sighs as he drinks from his silver tankard. MadameWarrington calls the toast of "The King" stoutly every day; and onSundays when Harry reads the Service, and prays for all travellers byland and by water, she says, "We beseech Thee to hear us, " with apeculiar solemnity. 

Mrs. Mountain is constantly on the whimper when George's name ismentioned, and Harry's face frequently wears a look of the most ghastlyalarm; but his mother's is invariably grave and sedate. She makes moreblunders at piquet and backgammon than you would expect from her; and theservants find her awake and dressed, however early they may rise. She hasprayed Mr. Dempster to come back into residence at Castlewood. She is notsevere or haughty, as her wont certainly was, with any of the party, butquiet in her talk with them, and gentle in assertion and reply. She isforever talking of her father and his campaigns, who came out of them allwith no very severe wounds to hurt him; and so she hopes and trusts willher eldest son. 

George writes frequent letters home to his brother, and, now the army ison its march, compiles a rough journal, which he forwards as occasionserves. This document is read with great eagerness by Harry, and morethan once read out in family councils on the long summer nights as MadameEsmond sits upright at her tea-table; as little Fanny Mountain is busywith her sewing, as Mr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain sit over their cards, as the hushed old servants of the house move about silently in thegloaming and listen to the words of the young master. Hearken to HarryWarrington reading out his brother's letter!

"It must be owned that the provinces are acting scurvily by his MajestyKing George, and his representative here is in a flame of fury. Virginiais bad enough, and poor Maryland not much better, but Pennsylvania isworst of all. We pray them to send us troops from home to fight theFrench; and we propose to maintain the troops when they come. We not onlydon't keep our promise, and make scarce any provision for our defenders, but our people insist upon the most exorbitant prices for their cattleand stores, and actually cheat the soldiers who are come to fight theirbattles. No wonder the General swears, and the troops are sulky. Thedelays have been endless. Owing to the failure of the several provincesto provide their promised stores and means of locomotion, weeks andmonths have elapsed, during which time no doubt the French have beenstrengthening themselves on our frontier and in the forts they haveturned us out of. Though there never will be any love lost between me andColonel Washington, it must be owned that _your favourite_ (I am notjealous, Hal) is a brave man and a good officer. The family respect himvery much, and the General is always asking his opinion. Indeed, he isalmost the only man who has seen the Indians in their war-paint, and Iown I think he was right in firing upon Mons. Jumonville last year. "

Harry resumes: "We keep the strictest order here in camp, and the ordersagainst drunkenness and ill behaviour on the part of the men are verysevere. The roll of each company is called at morning, noon, and night, and a return of the absent and disorderly is given in by the officer tothe commanding officer of the regiment, who has to see that they areproperly punished. Each regiment has Divine Service performed at the headof its colours every Sunday. The General does everything in the power ofmortal man to prevent plundering, and to encourage the people round aboutto bring in provisions. He has declared soldiers shall be shot who dareto interrupt or molest the market people. He has ordered the price ofprovisions to be raised a penny a pound, and has lent money out of hisown pocket to provide the camp. Altogether he is a strange compound, thisGeneral, and shows many strange inconsistencies in his conduct. 

"Colonel Washington has had the fever very smartly, and has hardly beenwell enough to keep up with the march. When either of us is ill, we arealmost as good friends again as ever, and though I don't love him as youdo, I know he is a good soldier, a good officer, and a brave, honest man;and, at any rate, shall love him none the worse for not wanting to be ourstep-father. "

"'Tis a pretty sight, " Harry continued, reading from his brother'sjournal, "to see a long line of red coats threading through the woods ortaking their ground after the march. The care against surprise is sogreat and constant that we defy prowling Indians to come unawares uponus, and our advanced sentries and savages have on the contrary fallen inwith the enemy and taken a scalp or two from them. They are such cruelvillains, these French and their painted allies, that we do not think ofshowing them mercy. Only think, we found but yesterday a little boyscalped but yet alive in a lone house, where his parents had beenattacked and murdered by the savage enemy, of whom--so great is hisindignation at their cruelty--our General has offered a reward of £5 forall the Indian scalps brought in. 

"When our march is over, you should see our camp, and all the carebestowed on it. Our baggage and our General's tents and guard are placedquite in the centre of the camp. We have outlying sentries by twos, bythrees, by tens, by whole companies. At the least surprise, they areinstructed to run in on the main body and rally round the tents andbaggage, which are so arranged themselves as to be a strongfortification. Sady and I, you must know, are marching on foot now, andmy horses are carrying baggage. The Pennsylvanians sent such rascallyanimals into camp that they speedily gave in. What good horses were left'twas our duty to give up; and Roxana has a couple of packs upon her backinstead of her young master. She knows me right well, and whinnies whenshe sees me, and I walk by her side, and we have many a talk together onthe march. 

"July 4. To guard against surprises, we are all warned to pay especialattention to the beat of the drum; always halting when we hear the longroll beat, and marching at the beat of the long march. We are more on thealert regarding the enemy now. We have our advanced pickets doubled, andtwo sentries at every post. The men on the advanced pickets areconstantly under arms, with fixed bayonets, all through the night, andrelieved every two hours. The half that are relieved lie down by theirarms, but are not suffered to leave their pickets. 'Tis evident that weare drawing near to the enemy now. This packet goes out with theGeneral's to Colonel Dunbar's camp, who is thirty miles behind us; andwill be carried thence to Frederick, and thence to my honoured mother'shouse at Castlewood, to whom I send my duty, with kindest remembrances, as to all friends there, and how much love I need not say to my dearestbrother from his affectionate George E. Warrington. "

The whole land was now lying parched and scorching in the July heat. Forten days no news had come from the column advancing on the Ohio. Theirmarch, though it toiled but slowly through the painful forest, must bringere long up with the enemy; the troops, led by consummate captains, wereaccustomed now to the wilderness, and not afraid of surprise. Everyprecaution had been taken against ambush. It was the outlying enemy whowere discovered, pursued, destroyed, by the vigilant scouts andskirmishers of the British force. The last news heard was that the armyhad advanced considerably beyond the ground of Mr. Washington'sdiscomfiture in the previous year, and two days after must be within aday's march of the French fort. About taking it no fears wereentertained; the amount of the French reinforcements from Montreal wasknown. Mr. Braddock, with his two veteran regiments from Britain, andtheir allies of Virginia and Pennsylvania, was more than a match for anytroops that could be collected under the white flag. 

Such continued to be the talk, in the sparse towns of our Virginianprovince, at the gentry's houses, and the rough road-side taverns, wherepeople met and canvassed the war. The few messengers sent back by theGeneral reported well of the main force. It was thought the enemy wouldnot stand or defend himself at all. Had he intended to attack, he mighthave seized a dozen occasions for assaulting our troops at passes throughwhich they had been allowed to go entirely free. So George had given uphis favourite mare, like a hero as he was, and was marching a-foot withthe line. Madame Esmond vowed that he should have the best horse inVirginia or Carolina in place of Roxana. There were horses enough to behad in the provinces, and for money. It was only for the King's servicethat they were not forthcoming. 

Although at their family meetings and repasts the inmates of Castlewoodalways talked cheerfully, never anticipating any but a triumphant issueto the campaign, or acknowledging any feeling of disquiet, yet it must beowned they were mighty uneasy when at home, quitting it ceaselessly, andforever on the trot from one neighbour's house to another in quest ofnews. It was prodigious how quickly reports ran and spread. For threeweeks after the army's departure, the reports regarding it were cheerful;and when our Castlewood friends met at their supper their tone wasconfident and their news pleasant. 

But on the 10th of July a vast and sudden gloom spread over the province. A look of terror and doubt seemed to fall upon every face. Affrightednegroes wistfully eyed their masters and retired, to hum and whisper withone another. The fiddles ceased in the quarters; the song and laugh ofthose cheery black folk were hushed. Right and left everybody's servantswere on the gallop for news. The country taverns were thronged withhorsemen, who drank and cursed and brawled at the bars, each bringing hisgloomy story. The army had been surprised. The troops had fallen into anambuscade, and had been cut up almost to a man. All the officers weretaken down by the French marksmen and the savages. The General had beenwounded, and carried off the field in his sash. Four days afterwards thereport was that the General was dead, and scalped by a French Indian. 

Ah, what a scream poor Mrs. Mountain gave when Gumbo brought this newsfrom across the James River, and little Fanny sprang crying to hermother's arms! "Lord God Almighty, watch over us, and defend my boy!"said Mrs. Esmond, sinking down on her knees and lifting her rigid handsto heaven. The gentlemen were not at home when the rumour arrived, butthey came in an hour or two afterwards, each from his hunt for news. TheScotch tutor did not dare to meet the widow's agonising looks. HarryWarrington was as pale as his mother. It might not be true about themanner of the General's death--but he was dead. The army had beensurprised by Indians, and had fled, and been killed without seeing theenemy. An express had arrived from Dunbar's camp. Fugitives were pouringin there. Should he go and see? He must go and see. He and stout littleDempster armed themselves and mounted, taking a couple of mountedservants with them. 

They followed the northward track which the expeditionary army had hewedout for itself, and at every step which brought them nearer to the sceneof action, the disaster of the fearful day seemed to magnify. The dayafter the defeat a number of the miserable fugitives from the fatalbattle of the 9th of July had reached Dunbar's camp, fifty miles from thefield. Thither poor Harry and his companions rode, stopping stragglers, asking news, giving money, getting from one and all the same gloomy tale. A thousand men were slain--two-thirds of the officers were down--all theGeneral's aides-de-camp were hit. Were hit--but were they killed? Thosewho fell never rose again. The tomahawk did its work upon them. Oh, brother brother! All the fond memories of their youth, all the dearremembrances of their childhood, the love and the laughter, the tenderromantic vows which they had pledged to each other as lads, were recalledby Harry with pangs inexpressibly keen. Wounded men looked up and weresoftened by his grief; rough men melted as they saw the woe written onthe handsome young face; the hardy old tutor could scarcely look at himfor tears, and grieved for him even more than for his dear pupil, who, hebelieved, lay dead under the savage Indian knife. 

At every step which Harry Warrington took towards Pennsylvania thereports of the British disaster were magnified and confirmed. Those twofamous regiments which had fought in the Scottish and Continental warshad fled from an enemy almost unseen, and their boasted discipline andvalour had not enabled them to face a band of savages and a few Frenchinfantry. The unfortunate commander of the expedition had shown theutmost bravery and resolution. 

Four times his horse had been shot under him. Twice he had been wounded, and the last time of the mortal hurt which ended his life three daysafter the battle. More than one of Harry's informants described theaction to the poor lad, --the passage of the river, the long line ofadvance through the wilderness, the firing in front, the vain struggle ofthe men to advance, and the artillery to clear the way of the enemy; thenthe ambushed fire from behind every bush and tree, and the murderousfusillade, by which at least half of the expeditionary force had beenshot down. But not all the General's suite were killed, Harry heard. Oneof his aides-de-camp, a Virginian gentleman, was ill of fever andexhaustion at Dunbar's camp. 

One of them--but which? To the camp Harry hurried, and reached it atlength. It was George Washington Harry found stretched in a tent there, and not his brother. A sharper pain than that of the fever Mr. Washingtondeclared he felt, when he saw Harry Warrington, and could give him nonews of George. 

Mr. Washington did not dare to tell Harry all. For three days after thefight his duty had been to be near the General. On the fatal 9th of Julyhe had seen George go to the front with orders from the chief, to whoseside he never returned. After Braddock himself died, the aide-de-camp hadfound means to retrace his course to the field. The corpses whichremained there were stripped and horribly mutilated. One body he buriedwhich he thought to be George Warrington's. His own illness wasincreased, perhaps occasioned, by the anguish which he underwent in hissearch for the unhappy volunteer. 

"Ah, George! If you had loved him you would have found him dead oralive, " Harry cried out. Nothing would satisfy him but that he, too, should go to the ground and examine it. With money he procured a guide ortwo. He forded the river at the place where the army had passed over; hewent from one end to the other of the dreadful field. The horriblespectacle of mutilation caused him to turn away with shudder andloathing. What news could the vacant woods, or those festering corpseslying under the trees, give the lad of his lost brother? He was forgoing, unarmed, with a white flag, to the French fort, whither, aftertheir victory, the enemy had returned; but his guides refused to advancewith him. The French might possibly respect them, but the Indians wouldnot. "Keep your hair for your lady-mother, my young gentleman, " said theguide. "Tis enough that she loses one son in this campaign. "

When Harry returned to the English encampment at Dunbar's it was his turnto be down with the fever. Delirium set in upon him, and he lay some timein the tent and on the bed from which his friend had just risenconvalescent. For some days he did not know who watched him; and poorDempster, who had tended him in more than one of these maladies, thoughtthe widow must lose both her children; but the fever was so far subduedthat the boy was enabled to rally somewhat, and get on horseback. Mr. Washington and Dempster both escorted him home. It was with a heavyheart, no doubt, that all three beheld once more the gates of Castlewood. 

A servant in advance had been sent to announce their coming. First cameMrs. Mountain and her little daughter, welcoming Harry with many tearsand embraces; but she scarce gave a nod of recognition to Mr. Washington;and the little girl caused the young officer to start, and turn deadlypale, by coming up to him with her hands behind her, and asking, "Whyhave you not brought George back, too?"

Dempster was graciously received by the two ladies. "Whatever could bedone, we know _you_ would do, Mr. Dempster, " says Mrs. Mountain, givinghim her hand. "Make a curtsey to Mr. Dempster, Fanny, and remember, child, to be grateful to all who have been friendly to our benefactors. Will it please you to take any refreshment before you ride, ColonelWashington?"

Mr. Washington had had a sufficient ride already, and counted ascertainly upon the hospitality of Castlewood as he would upon the shelterof his own house. 

"The time to feed my horse, and a glass of water for myself, and I willtrouble Castlewood hospitality no farther, " Mr. Washington said. 

"Sure, George, you have your room here, and my mother is above stairsgetting it ready!" cries Harry. "That poor horse of yours stumbled withyou, and can't go farther this evening. "

"Hush! Your mother won't see him, child, " whispered Mrs. Mountain. 

"Not see George? Why, he is like a son of the house, " cries Harry. 

"She had best not see him. I don't meddle any more in family matters, child; but when the Colonel's servant rode in, and said you were coming, Madame Esmond left this room and said she felt she could not see Mr. Washington. Will you go to her?" Harry took Mrs. Mountain's arm, andexcusing himself to the Colonel, to whom he said he would return in a fewminutes, he left the parlour in which they had assembled, and went to theupper rooms, where Madame Esmond was. 

He was hastening across the corridor, and, with an averted head, passingby one especial door, which he did not like to look at, for it was thatof his brother's room; and as he came to it, Madame Esmond issued fromit, and folded him to her heart, and led him in. A settee was by the bed, and a book of psalms lay on the coverlet. All the rest of the room wasexactly as George had left it. 

"My poor child! How thin thou art grown--how haggard you look! Nevermind. A mother's care will make thee well again. 'Twas nobly done to goand brave sickness and danger in search of your brother. Had others beenas faithful, he might be here now. Never mind, my Harry; our hero willcome back to us. I know he is not dead. He will come back to us, I knowhe will come. " And when Harry pressed her to give a reason for herbelief, she said she had seen her father two nights running in a dream, and he had told her that her boy was a prisoner among the Indians. 

Madame Esmond's grief had not prostrated her as Harry's had when first itfell upon him; it had rather stirred and animated her; her eyes wereeager, her countenance angry and revengeful. The lad wondered almost atthe condition in which he found his mother. 

But when he besought her to go downstairs, and give her a hand of welcometo George Washington, who had accompanied him, the lady's excitementpainfully increased. She said she should shudder at touching his hand. She declared Mr. Washington had taken her son from her; she could notsleep under the same roof with him. 

"No gentleman, " cried Harry, warmly, "was ever refused shelter under mygrandfather's roof. "

"Oh, no, gentlemen!" exclaims the little widow; "well let us go down, ifyou like, son, and pay our respects to this one. Will you please to giveus your arm?" and taking an arm which was very little able to give hersupport, she walked down the broad stairs and into the apartment wherethe Colonel sat. 

She made him a ceremonious curtsey, and extended one of the little hands, which she allowed for a moment to rest in his. "I wish that our meetinghad been happier, Colonel Washington, " she said. 

"You do not grieve more than I do that it is otherwise, Madame, " saidthe Colonel. 

"I might have wished that the meeting had been spared, that I might nothave kept you from friends whom you are naturally anxious to see, that myboy's indisposition had not detained you. Home and his good nurseMountain, and his mother and our good Dr. Dempster will soon restore him. 'Twas scarce necessary, Colonel, that you who have so many affairs onyour hands, military and domestic, should turn doctor too. "

"Harry was ill and weak, and I thought it was my duty to ride by him, "faltered the Colonel. 

"You yourself, sir, have gone through the _fatigues_ and _dangers_ of thecampaign in the most wonderful manner, " said the widow, curtseying again, and looking at him with her impenetrable black eyes. 

"I wish to Heaven, Madame, someone else had come back in my place!"

"Nay, sir, you have ties which must render your life more than evervaluable and dear to you, and duties to which, I know, you must beanxious to betake yourself. In our present deplorable state of doubt anddistress Castlewood can be a welcome place to no stranger, much less toyou, and so I know, sir, you will be for leaving us ere long. And youwill pardon me if the state of my own spirits obliges me for the mostpart to keep my chamber. But my friends here will bear you company aslong as you favour us, whilst I nurse my poor Harry upstairs. Mountain!you will have the cedar room on the ground floor ready for Mr. Washingtonand anything in the house is at his command. Farewell, sir. Will you bepleased to present my compliments to your mother, who will be thankful tohave her son safe and sound out of the war?--as also to my young friend, Martha Custis, to whom and to whose children I wish every happiness. Come, my son!" and with these words, and another freezing curtsey, thepale little woman retreated, looking steadily at the Colonel, who stooddumb on the floor. 

Strong as Madame Esmond's belief appeared to be respecting her son'ssafety, the house of Castlewood naturally remained sad and gloomy. Tolook for George was hoping against hope. No authentic account of hisdeath had indeed arrived, and no one appeared who had seen him fall, buthundreds more had been so stricken on that fatal day, with no eyes tobehold their last pangs, save those of the lurking enemy and the comradesdying by their side. A fortnight after the defeat, when Harry was absenton his quest, George's servant, Sady, reappeared, wounded and maimed, atCastlewood. But he could give no coherent account of the battle, only ofhis flight from the centre, where he was with the baggage. He had no newsof his master since the morning of the action. For many days Sady lurkedin the negro quarters away from the sight of Madame Esmond, whose angerhe did not dare to face. That lady's few neighbours spoke of her aslabouring under a delusion. So strong was it that there were times whenHarry and the other members of the little Castlewood family were almostbrought to share in it. No. George was not dead; George was a prisoneramong the Indians; George would come back and rule over Castlewood; assure, as sure as his Majesty would send a great force from home torecover the tarnished glory of the British arms, and to drive the Frenchout of the Americas. 

As for Mr. Washington, she would never, with her own good will, beholdhim again. He had promised to guard George's life with his own, and wherewas her boy. 

So, if Harry wanted to meet his friend, he had to do so in secret. MadameEsmond was exceedingly excited when she heard that the Colonel and herson absolutely had met, and said to Harry, "How you can talk, sir, ofloving George, and then go and meet your Mr. Washington, I can'tunderstand. "

So there was not only grief in the Castlewood House, but there wasdisunion. As a result of the gloom, and of his grief for the loss of hisbrother, Harry was again and again struck down by the fever, and all theJesuits' bark in America could not cure him. They had a tobacco-house andsome land about the new town of Richmond, and he went thither and theremended a little, but still did not get quite well, and the physiciansstrongly counselled a sea-voyage. Madame Esmond at one time had thoughtsof going with him, but, as she and Harry did not agree very well, thoughthey loved each other very heartily, 'twas determined that Harry shouldsee the world for himself. 

Accordingly he took passage on the "Young Rachel, " Virginian ship, Edward Franks master. She proceeded to Bristol and moored as near aspossible to Trail's wharf, to which she was consigned. Mr. Trail, whocould survey his ship from his counting-house windows, straightway tookboat and came up her side, and gave the hand of welcome to CaptainFranks, congratulating the Captain upon the speedy and fortunate voyagewhich he had made. 

Franks was a pleasant man, who loved a joke. "We have, " says he, "butyonder ugly negro boy, who is fetching the trunks, and a passenger whohas the state cabin to himself. "

Mr. Trail looked as if he would have preferred more mercies from Heaven. "Confound you, Franks, and your luck! The 'Duke William, ' which came inlast week, brought fourteen, and she is not half of our tonnage. "

"And this passenger, who has the whole cabin, don't pay nothin', "continued the Captain. "Swear now, it will do you good, Mr. Trail, indeed it will. I have tried the medicine. "

"A passenger take the whole cabin and not pay? Gracious mercy, are you afool, Captain Franks?"

"Ask the passenger himself, for here he comes. " And as the master spoke, a young man of some nineteen years of age came up the hatchway. He had acloak and a sword under his arm, and was dressed in deep mourning, andcalled out, "Gumbo, you idiot, why don't you fetch the baggage out of thecabin? Well, shipmate, our journey is ended. You will see all the littlefolks to-night whom you have been talking about. Give my love to Polly, and Betty, and little Tommy; not forgetting my duty to Mrs. Franks. Ithought, yesterday, the voyage would never be done, and now I am almostsorry it is over. That little berth in my cabin looks very comfortablenow I am going to leave it. "

Mr. Trail scowled at the young passenger who had paid no money for hispassage. He scarcely nodded his head to the stranger, when CaptainFranks said: "This here gentleman is Mr. Trail, sir, whose name you havea-heerd of. "

"It's pretty well known in Bristol, sir, " says Mr. Trail, majestically. 

"And this is Mr. Warrington, Madame Esmond Warrington's son, ofCastlewood, " continued the Captain. 

The British merchant's hat was instantly off his head, and the owner ofthe beaver was making a prodigious number of bows, as if a crown-princewere before him. 

"Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington! This is a delight, indeed! What acrowning mercy that your voyage should have been so prosperous! You havemy boat to go on shore. Let me cordially and respectfully welcome you toEngland! Let me shake your hand as the son of my benefactress andpatroness, Mrs. Esmond Warrington, whose name is known and honoured onBristol 'Change, I warrant you. Isn't it, Franks?"

"There's no sweeter tobacco comes from Virginia, " says Mr. Franks, drawing a great brass tobacco-box from his pocket, and thrusting a quidinto his jolly mouth. "You don't know what a comfort it is, sir; you'lltake to it, bless you, as you grow older. Won't he, Mr. Trail? I wish youhad ten shiploads of it instead of one. You might have ten shiploads;I've told Madame Esmond so; I've rode over her plantation; she treats melike a lord when I go to the house. She is a real-born lady, she is; andmight have a thousand hogsheads as easy as her hundreds, if there werebut hands enough. "

"I have lately engaged in the Guinea trade, and could supply her ladyshipwith any number of healthy young negroes before next fall, " said Mr. Trail, obsequiously. 

"We are averse to the purchase of negroes from Africa, " said the younggentleman, coldly. "My grandfather and my mother have always objected toit, and I do not like to think of selling or buying the poor wretches. "

"It is for their good, my dear young sir! We purchased the poor creaturesonly for their benefit; let me talk this matter over with you at my ownhouse. I can introduce you to a happy home, a Christian family, and aBritish merchant's honest fare. Can't I, Captain Franks?"

"Can't say, " growled the Captain. "Never asked me to take bite or sup atyour table. Asked me to psalm-singing once, and to hear Mr. Ward preach:don't care for them sort of entertainments. "

Not choosing to take any notice of this remark, Mr. Trail continued inhis low tone: "Business is business, my dear young sir, and I know 'tisonly my duty, the duty of all of us, to cultivate the fruits of the earthin their season. As the heir of Lady Esmond's estate--for I speak, Ibelieve, to the heir of the great property?"

The young gentleman made a bow. 

"I would urge upon you, at the very earliest moment, the duty ofincreasing the ample means with which Heaven has blessed you. As anhonest factor, I could not do otherwise: as a prudent man, should Iscruple to speak of what will tend to your profit and mine? No, my dearMr. George. "

"My name is not George; my name is Henry, " said the young man as heturned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears. 

"Gracious powers! what do you mean, sir? Did you not say you were mylady's heir, and is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq. --?"

"Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Mr. Franks, striking the merchant atough blow on his sleek sides, as the young lad turned away. "Don't yousee the young gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black clothes?"

"What do you mean, Captain Franks, by laying your hand on your owners?Mr. George is the heir; I know the Colonel's will well enough. "

"Mr. George is there, " said the Captain, pointing with his thumbto the deck. 

"Where?" cries the factor. 

"Mr. George is there!" reiterated the Captain, again lifting up hisfinger towards the topmast, or the sky beyond. "He is dead a year, sir, come next 9th of July. He would go out with General Braddock on thatdreadful business to the Belle Riviere. He and a thousand more never cameback again. Every man of them was murdered as he fell. You know theIndian way, Mr. Trail?" And here the Captain passed his hand rapidlyround his head. 

"Horrible! ain't it, sir? Horrible! He was a fine young man, the verypicture of this one; only his hair was black, which is now hanging in abloody Indian wigwam. He was often and often on board of the 'YoungRachel, ' and would have his chests of books broke open on deck beforethey landed. He was a shy and silent young gent, not like this one, whichwas the merriest, wildest young fellow, full of his songs and fun. Hetook on dreadful at the news; went to his bed, had that fever which laysso many of 'em by the heels along that swampy Potomac, but he's gotbetter on the voyage: the voyage makes everyone better; and, in course, the young gentleman can't be forever a-crying after a brother who diesand leaves him a great fortune. Ever since we sighted Ireland he has beenquite gay and happy, only he would go off at times when he was mostmerry, saying, 'I wish my dearest Georgie could enjoy this here sightalong with me, ' and when you mentioned t'other's name, you see, hecouldn't stand it. " And the honest Captain's own eyes filled with tears, as he turned and looked towards the object of his compassion. 

Mr. Trail assumed a sad expression befitting the tragic compliment withwhich he prepared to greet the young Virginian; but the latter answeredhim very curtly, declining his offers of hospitality, and only stayed inMr. Trail's house long enough to drink a glass of wine and to take up asum of money of which he stood in need. But he and Captain Franks partedon the very warmest terms, and all the little crew of the "Young Rachel"cheered from the ship's side as their passenger left it. 

Again and again Harry Warrington and his brother had pored over theEnglish map, and determined upon the course which they should take uponarriving at Home. All Americans of English ancestry who love their mothercountry have rehearsed their English travels, and visited in fancy thespots with which their hopes, their parents' fond stories, their friends'descriptions, have rendered them familiar. There are few things to memore affecting in the history of the quarrel which divided the two greatnations than the recurrence of that word Home, as used by the youngertowards the elder country. Harry Warrington had his chart laid out. Before London, and its glorious temples of St. Paul's and St. Peter's;its grim Tower, where the brave and loyal had shed their blood, fromWallace down to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, pitied by gentle hearts; beforethe awful window at Whitehall, whence the martyr Charles had issued, tokneel once more, and then ascended to Heaven; before playhouses, parks, and palaces, wondrous resorts of wit, pleasure and splendour; beforeShakespeare's resting-place under the tall spire which rises by Avon, amidst the sweet Warwickshire pastures; before Derby, and Falkirk, andCulloden, where the cause of honour and loyalty had fallen, it might beto rise no more: before all these points in their pilgrimage there wasone which the young Virginian brothers held even more sacred, and thatwas the home of their family, that old Castlewood in Hampshire, aboutwhich their parents had talked so fondly. From Bristol to Bath, from Bathto Salisbury, to Winchester, to Hexton, to Home; they knew the way, andhad mapped the journey many and many a time. 

We must fancy our American traveller to be a handsome young fellow, whosesuit of sables only makes him look the more interesting. The plumplandlady looked kindly after the young gentleman as he passed through theinn-hall from his post-chaise, and the obsequious chamberlain bowed himupstairs to the "Rose" or the "Dolphin. " The trim chambermaid dropped herbest curtsey for his fee, and Gumbo, in the inn-kitchen, where thetownsfolk drank their mug of ale by the great fire, bragged of his youngmaster's splendid house in Virginia, and of the immense wealth to whichhe was heir. The post-chaise whirled the traveller through the mostdelightful home scenery his eyes had ever lighted on. If Englishlandscape is pleasant to the American of the present day, who must needscontrast the rich woods and growing pastures and picturesque ancientvillages of the old country with the rough aspect of his own, how muchpleasanter must Harry Warrington's course have been, whose journeys hadlain through swamps and forest solitudes from one Virginian ordinary toanother log-house at the end of the day's route, and who now lightedsuddenly upon the busy, happy, splendid scene of English summer? And thehigh-road, a hundred years ago, was not that grass-grown desert of thepresent time. It was alive with constant travel and traffic: the countrytowns and inns swarmed with life and gaiety. The ponderous waggon, withits bells and plodding team; the light post-coach that achieved thejourney from the "White Hart, " Salisbury, to the "Swan with Two Necks, "London, in two days; the strings of pack-horses that had not yet left theroad; my lord's gilt post-chaise and six, with the outriders galloping onahead; the country squire's great coach and heavy Flanders mares; thefarmers trotting to market, or the parson jolting to the cathedral townon Dumpling, his wife behind on the pillion--all these crowding sightsand brisk people greeted the young traveller on his summer journey. Hodge, the farmer's boy, took off his hat, and Polly, the milk-maid, bobbed a curtsey, as the chaise whirled over the pleasant village-green, and the white-headed children lifted their chubby faces and cheered. Thechurch-spires glistened with gold, the cottage-gables glared in sunshine, the great elms murmured in summer, or cast purple shadows over thegrass. Young Warrington never had had such a glorious day, or witnessed ascene so delightful. To be nineteen years of age, with high health, highspirits, and a full purse, to be making your first journey, and rollingthrough the country in a post-chaise at nine miles an hour--Oh, happyyouth! almost it makes one young to think of him!

And there let us leave him at Castlewood Inn, on ground hallowed by thefootsteps of his ancestors. There he stands, with new scenes, newfriends, new experiences ahead, rich in hope, in expectation, and in theenthusiasm of youth--youth that comes but once, and is so fleet of foot!

And still more glad would he have been had he known that the near futurewas to verify his mother's belief; to restore to him the twin-brother nowmourned as dead. And glad are we, in looking beyond this story of boyhooddays, to find that though in the Revolutionary War the subjects of thissketch fought on different sides in the quarrel, they came out peacefullyat its conclusion, as brothers should, their love never having materiallydiminished, however angrily the contest divided them. 

The colonel in scarlet and the general in blue and buff hang side by sidein the wainscoted parlour of the Warringtons in England, and theportraits are known by the name of "The Virginians. "

BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL

[Illustration: BECKY SHARP LEAVING CHISWICK. ]

While the last century was in its teens, and on one sunshiny morning inJune, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton's Academyfor young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fathorses in blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-corneredhat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour. A black servant, whoreposed on the box beside the fat coachman, uncurled his bandy legs assoon as the equipage drew up opposite Miss Pinkerton's shining brassplate; and as he pulled the bell at least a score of young heads wereseen peering out of the narrow windows of the stately old brick house. Nay, the acute observer might have recognised the little red nose ofgood-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton herself, rising over somegeranium-pots in the window of that lady's own drawing-room. "It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, sister, " said Miss Jemima. "Sambo, the black servant, hasjust rung the bell; and the coachman has a new red waistcoat. "

"Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to MissSedley's departure, Miss Jemima?" asked Miss Pinkerton, that majesticlady, the friend of the famous literary man, Dr. Johnson, the author ofthe great Dixonary of the English language, called commonly the greatLexicographer. 

"The girls were up at four this morning, packing her trunks, sister, "replied Miss Jemima; "we have made her a bow-pot. "

"Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel. "

"Well, a booky as big almost as a hay-stack; I have put up two bottles ofthe gillyflower-water for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making it, inAmelia's box. "

"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's account. This is it, is it? Very good--ninety-three pounds, four shillings. Bekind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal thisbillet which I have written to his lady. "

In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration as would have been a letter from asovereign. Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or when theywere about to be married, and once, when poor Miss Birch died of thescarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to theparents of her pupils; and it was Jemima's opinion that if anythingcould have consoled Mrs. Birch for her daughter's loss, it would havebeen that pious and eloquent composition in which Miss Pinkertonannounced the event. 

In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to thefollowing effect:

 * * * * *

THE MALL, CHISWICK, June 15, 18--. 

_Madam_: After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honourand happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a younglady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished andrefined circle. Those virtues which characterise the young Englishgentlewoman; those accomplishments which become her birth and station, will not be found wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose industry andobedience have endeared her to her instructors, and whose delightfulsweetness of temper has charmed her aged and her youthful companions. 

In music, dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery andneedle-work, she will be found to have realised her friends' fondestwishes. In geography there is still much to be desired; and a careful andundeviating use of the back-board, for four hours daily during the nextthree years is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of thatdignified deportment and carriage so requisite for every young lady offashion. 

In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be foundworthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the presence ofThe Great Lexicographer, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs. Chapone. In leaving them all, Miss Amelia carries with her the heartsof her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who hasthe honour to subscribe herself, Madam, your most obliged humbleservant, BARBARA PINKERTON. 

P. S. --Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly requestedthat Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days. The family of distinction with whom she is engaged as governess desireto avail themselves of her services as soon as possible. 

 * * * * *

This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name andMiss Sedley's in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's Dictionary, the interestingwork which she invariably presented to her scholars on their departurefrom the Mall. On the cover was inserted a copy of "Lines addressed to ayoung lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school, at the Mall; by the laterevered Dr. Samuel Johnson. " In fact, the Lexicographer's name was alwayson the lips of this majestic woman, and a visit he had paid to her wasthe cause of her reputation and her fortune. 

Being commanded by her elder sister to get The Dixonary from thecupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two copies of the book from thereceptacle in question. When Miss Pinkerton had finished theinscription in the first, Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid airhanded her the second. 

"For whom is this, Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinkerton, with awfulcoldness. 

"For Becky Sharp, " answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushingover her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister. "For Becky Sharp. She's going, too. "

"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Areyou in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never ventureto take such a liberty in future. "

"Well, sister, it's only two and nine-pence, and poor Becky will bemiserable if she don't get one. "

"Send Miss Sedley instantly to me, " was Miss Pinkerton's only answer. And, venturing not to say another word, poor Jemima trotted off, exceedingly flurried and nervous, while the two pupils, Miss Sedley andMiss Sharp, were making final preparation for their departure for MissSedley's home. 

Now, Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, and a man of somewealth, whereas Miss Sharp was only an articled pupil, for whom MissPinkerton had done, as she thought, quite enough, without conferringupon her at parting the high honour of the dixonary. Miss Sharp's fatherhad been an artist, and in former years had given lessons in drawing atMiss Pinkerton's school. He was a clever man, a pleasant companion, acareless student, with a great propensity for running into debt, and apartiality for the tavern. As it was with the utmost difficulty that hecould keep himself, and as he owed money for a mile round Soho, where helived, he thought to better his circumstances by marrying a young womanof the French nation, who was by profession an opera-girl, who had hadsome education somewhere, and her daughter Rebecca spoke French withpurity and a Parisian accent. It was in those days rather a rareaccomplishment, and led to her engagement with the orthodox MissPinkerton. For, her mother being dead, her father, finding himselffatally ill, as a consequence of his bad habits, wrote a manly andpathetic letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child to herprotection, and so descended to the grave, after two bailiffs hadquarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was seventeen when she came toChiswick, and was bound over as an articled pupil; her duties being totalk French, as we have seen; and her privileges to live cost free, andwith a few guineas a year, to gather scraps of knowledge from theprofessors who attended the school. 

She was small, and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, and with eyesalmost habitually cast down. When they looked up, they were very large, odd, and attractive. By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladiesin the establishment Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she had thedismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she talked to, and turnedaway from her father's door; many a tradesman had she coaxed and wheedledinto good-humour, and into the granting of one meal more. She had satcommonly with her father, who was very proud of her wit, and heard thetalk of many of his wild companions, often but ill-suited for a girl tohear; but she had never been a girl, she said; she had been a woman sinceshe was eight years old. 

Miss Jemima, however, believed her to be the most innocent creature inthe world, so admirably did Rebecca play the part of a child on theoccasions when her father brought her to Chiswick as a young girl, andonly a year before her father's death, and when she was sixteen yearsold, Miss Pinkerton majestically and with a little speech made her apresent of a doll, which was, by the way, the confiscated property ofMiss Swindle, discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school-hours. Howthe father and daughter laughed as they trudged home together after theevening party, and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had she seen thecaricature of herself which the little mimic, Rebecca, managed to makeout of the doll. Becky used to go through dialogues with it; it formedthe delight of the circle of young painters who frequented the studio, who used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was at home. OnceRebecca had the honour to pass a few days at Chiswick, after which shebrought back another doll which she called Miss Jemmy; for, though thathonest creature had made and given her jelly and cake enough for threechildren, and a seven-shillings piece at parting, the girl's sense ofridicule was far stronger than her gratitude; and she sacrificed MissJemmy as pitilessly as her sister. 

Then came the ending of Becky's studio days, and, an orphan, she wastransplanted to the Mall as her home. 

The rigid formality of the place suffocated her; the prayers and meals, the lessons and the walks, which were arranged with the regularity of aconvent, oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and she looked back tothe freedom and the beggary of her father's old studio with bitterregret. She had never mingled in the society of women: her father, reprobate as he was, was a man of talent; his conversation was a thousandtimes more agreeable to her than the silly chat and scandal of theschoolgirls, and the frigid correctness of the governesses equallyannoyed her. She had no soft maternal heart, this unlucky girl. Theprattle of the younger children, with whose care she was chieflyentrusted, might have soothed and interested her; but she lived amongthem two years, and not one was sorry that she went away. The gentle, tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the only person to whom she could attachherself in the least; and who could help attaching herself to Amelia?

The happiness, the superior advantages of the young women round abouther, gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs of envy. "What airs that girlgives herself, because she is an Earl's granddaughter, " she said ofone. "How they cringe and bow to the Creole, because of her hundredthousand pounds. I am a thousand times cleverer and more charmingthan that creature, for all her wealth. I am as well bred as theEarl's granddaughter, for all her fine pedigree; and yet everyonepasses me by here. "

She determined to get free from the prison in which she found herself, and now began to act for herself, and for the first time to makeconnected plans for the future. 

She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the place offeredher; and as she was already a musician and a good linguist, she speedilywent through the little course of study considered necessary for ladiesin those days. Her music she practised incessantly; and one day, when thegirls were out, and she remained at home, she was overheard to play apiece so well that Miss Minerva thought, wisely, she could spare herselfthe expense of a master for the juniors, and intimated to Miss Sharp thatshe was to instruct them in music for the future. 

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

Miss Minerva was obliged to yield, and of course disliked her from thatday. "For five-and-thirty years, " she said, and with great justice, "Inever have seen the individual who has dared in my own house to questionmy authority. I have nourished a viper in my bosom. "

"A viper--a fiddlestick!" said Miss Sharp to the old lady, who was almostfainting with astonishment. "You took me because I was useful. There isno question of gratitude between us. I hate this place, and want to leaveit. I will do nothing here but what I am obliged to do. "

It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware she wasspeaking to Miss Pinkerton? Rebecca laughed in her face. "Give me a sumof money, " said the girl, "and get rid of me. Or, if you like better, getme a good place as governess in a nobleman's family. You can do so if youplease. " And in their further disputes she always returned to this point:"Get me a situation--I am ready to go. "

Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose and a turban, andwas as tall as a grenadier, and had been up to this time an irresistibleprincess, had no will or strength like that of her little apprentice, andin vain did battle against her, and tried to overawe her. Attempting onceto scold her in public, Rebecca hit upon the plan of answering her inFrench, which quite routed the old woman, who did not understand or speakthat language. In order to maintain authority in her school, it becamenecessary to remove this rebel, this firebrand; and hearing about thistime that Sir Pitt Crawley's family was in want of a governess, sheactually recommended Miss Sharp for the situation, firebrand and serpentas she was. "I cannot certainly, " she said, "find fault with Miss Sharp'sconduct, except to myself; and must allow that her talents andaccomplishments are of a high order. As far as the head goes, at least, she does credit to the educational system pursued at my establishment. "

And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation to herconscience, and the apprentice was free. And as Miss Sedley, being now inher seventeenth year, was about to leave school, and had a friendship forMiss Sharp ("'Tis the only point in Amelia's behaviour, " said MissMinerva, "which has not been satisfactory to her mistress"), Miss Sharpwas invited by her friend to pass a week with her in London, before Beckyentered upon her duties as governess in a private family; whichthoughtfulness on the part of Amelia was only an additional proof of thegirl's affectionate nature. In fact, Miss Amelia Sedley was a young ladywho deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her praise, but hadmany charming qualities which that pompous old woman could not see, fromthe differences of rank and age between her pupil and herself. She couldnot only sing like a lark, and dance divinely, and embroider beautifully, and spell as well as a "Dixonary" itself, but she had such a kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of her own as won the love ofeverybody who came near her, from Miss Minerva herself down to the poorgirl in the scullery and the one-eyed tart woman's daughter, who waspermitted to vend her wares once a week to the young ladies in the Mall. She had twelve intimate and bosom friends out of the twenty-four youngladies. Even envious Miss Briggs never spoke ill of her: high and mightyMiss Saltire allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss Swartz, the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitts, on the day Amelia wentaway she was in such a passion of tears that they were obliged to sendfor Dr. Floss, and half-tipsify her with salvolatile. Miss Pinkerton'sattachment was, as may be supposed, from the high position and eminentvirtues of that lady, calm and dignified; but Miss Jemima had alreadywhimpered several times at the idea of Amelia's departure; and but forfear of her sister would have gone off in downright hysterics, like theheiress of St. Kitts. 

As Amelia is not a heroine, there is no need to describe her person;indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short than otherwise, andher cheeks a great deal too round and red for a heroine; but her faceblushed with rosy health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, andshe had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the brightest and honestestgood-humour, except indeed when they filled with tears, and that was agreat deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a dead canarybird; or over a mouse that the cat haply had seized upon; or over theend of a novel, were it ever so stupid; and as for saying an unkind wordto her, were any persons hard-hearted enough to do so--why so much theworse for them. Even Miss Pinkerton, that austere woman, ceased scoldingher after the first time, and, though she no more comprehendedsensibility than she did capital Algebra, gave all masters and teachersparticular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost gentleness, asharsh treatment was injurious to her. 

So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs oflaughing and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled how to act. She wasglad to go home, and yet most woefully sad at leaving school. For threedays before, little Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about like alittle dog. She had to make and receive at least fourteen presents, tomake fourteen solemn promises of writing every week. 

"Send my letters under cover to my grandpa, the Earl of Dexter, " saidMiss Saltire. 

"Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear darling, " said theimpetuous and woolly-headed, but generous and affectionate, MissSchwartz; and little Laura Martin took her friend's hand and said, looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, when I write to you I shallcall you mamma. "

All of these details, foolish and sentimental as they may seem, go toshow the extreme popularity and personal charm of Amelia. 

Well then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, andbonnet-boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by Mr. Sambo in thecarriage, together with a very small and weather-beaten old cowskin trunkwith Miss Sharp's card neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered bySambo with a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding sneer, the hour for parting came; and the grief of that moment was considerablylessened by the admirable discourse which Miss Pinkerton addressed to herpupil. Not that the parting speech caused Amelia to philosophise, or thatit armed her in any way with a calmness, the result of argument; but itwas intolerably dull, and having the fear of her schoolmistress greatlybefore her eyes, Miss Sedley did not venture, in her presence, to giveway to any ablutions of private grief. A seed-cake and a bottle of winewere produced in the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions of thevisits of parents, and these refreshments being partaken of, Miss Sedleywas at liberty to depart. 

"You'll go in and say good-bye to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said MissJemima to that young lady, of whom nobody took any notice, and who wascoming downstairs with her own bandbox. 

"I suppose I must, " said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder ofMiss Jemima; and the latter, having knocked at the door, and receivingpermission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French, and with a perfect accent, _"Mademoiselle, je viensvous faire mes adieux. "_

Miss Pinkerton did not understand French, as we know; she only directedthose who did; but biting her lips and throwing up her venerable andRoman-nosed head, she said: "Miss Sharp, I wish you a good-morning. " Asshe spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu and to give MissSharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fingers of the hand, which wasleft out for that purpose. 

Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid smile and bow, and quite declined to accept the proffered honour; on which MissPinkerton tossed up her turban more indignantly than ever. In fact, itwas a little battle between the young lady and the old one, and thelatter was worsted. "Heaven bless you, my child, " she exclaimed, embracing Amelia, and scowling the while over the girl's shoulder atMiss Sharp. 

"Come away, Becky, " said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away ingreat alarm, and the drawing-room door closed upon them forever. 

Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. Allthe servants were there in the hall--all the dear friends--all the youngladies--even the dancing master, who had just arrived; and there was sucha scuffling, and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical_yoops_ of Miss Schwartz, the parlour boarder, from her room, as no pencan depict, and as the tender heart would feign pass over. The embracingwas over; they parted--that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. MissSharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before. Nobodycried for leaving _her_. 

Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door on his young weepingmistress. He sprang up behind the carriage. 

"Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel. 

"It's some sandwiches, my dear, " she called to Amelia. "You may behungry, you know; . .. And Becky--Becky Sharp--here's a book for you, thatmy sister--that is, I--Johnson's Dixonary, you know; . .. You mustn'tleave us without that! Good-bye! Drive on, coachman!--God bless you!"

And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion. 

But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp suddenly put herpale face out of the window, and flung the book back into thegarden--flung it far and fast--watching it fall at the feet of astonishedMiss Jemima; then sank back in the carriage, exclaiming: "So much for the'Dixonary'; and, thank God, I am out of Chiswick!"

The shock of such an act almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. 

"Well, I never--" she began. "What an audacious--" she gasped. Emotion prevented her from completing either sentence. 

The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang forthe dancing lesson. The world is before the two young ladies; and so, farewell to Chiswick Mall. 

CUFFS FIGHT WITH "FIGS"

[Illustration: CUFF'S FIGHT WITH "FIGS. "]

Cuff's fight with Figs, and the unexpected issue of that contest, willlong be remembered by every man who was educated at Dr. Swishtail'sfamous school. The latter youth (who used to be called Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin, Figs, and by many other names indicative of puerilecontempt) was the quietest, the clumsiest, and, as it seemed, the dullestof all Dr. Swishtail's young gentlemen. His parent was a grocer in thecity: and it was bruited abroad that he was admitted into Dr. Swishtailsacademy upon what are called "mutual principles"--that is to say, theexpenses of his board and schooling were defrayed by his father in goods, not money; and he stood there--almost at the bottom of the school--in hisscraggy corduroys and jacket, through the seams of which his great bigbones were bursting, as the representative of so many pounds of tea, candles, sugar, mottled-soap, plums (of which a very mild proportion wassupplied for the puddings of the establishment), and other commodities. Adreadful day it was for young Dobbin when one of the youngsters of theschool, having run into the town upon a poaching excursion for hardbakeand polonies, espied the cart of Dobbin & Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, Thames Street, London, at the Doctor's door, discharging a cargo of thewares in which the firm dealt. 

Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were frightful andmerciless against him. 

"Hullo, Dobbin, " one wag would say, "here's good news in the paper. Sugaris ris', my boy. "

Another would set a sum--"If a pound of mutton-candles costsevenpence-halfpenny, how much must Dobbin cost?" and a roar would followfrom all the circle of young knaves, usher and all, who rightlyconsidered that the selling of goods by retail is a shameful and infamouspractice, meriting the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen. 

"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne, " Dobbin said in private to thelittle boy who had brought down the storm upon him. At which the latterreplied haughtily, "My father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage;" andMr. William Dobbin retreated to a remote out-house in the playground, where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sadness and woe. 

Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the rudiments of theLatin language, as they are propounded in that wonderful book, the EtonLatin Grammar, was compelled to remain among the very last of Dr. Swishtail's scholars, and was "taken down" continually by little fellowswith pink faces and pinafores when he marched up with the lower form, agiant amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied look, his dog's-earedprimer, and his tight corduroys. High and low, all made fun of him. Theysewed up those corduroys, tight as they were. They cut his bed-springs. They upset buckets and benches, so that he might break his shins overthem, which he never failed to do. They sent him parcels, which, whenopened, were found to contain the paternal soap and candles. There wasno little fellow but had his jeer and joke at Dobbin; and he boreeverything quite patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable. 

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the SwishtailSeminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town-boys. Ponies used tocome for him to ride home on Saturdays. He had his top-boots in his roomin which he used to hunt in the holidays. He had a gold repeater, andtook snuff like the Doctor. He had been to the Opera, and knew the meritsof the principal actors, preferring Mr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He couldknock you off forty Latin verses in an hour. He could make French poetry. What else didn't he know, or couldn't he do? They said even the Doctorhimself was afraid of him. 

Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects, andbullied them, with splendid superiority. This one blacked his shoes, thattoasted his bread, others would fag out, and give him balls at cricketduring whole summer afternoons. Figs was the fellow whom he despisedmost, and with whom, though always abusing him, and sneering at him, hescarcely ever condescended to hold personal communication. 

One day in private the two young gentlemen had had a difference. Figs, alone in the school-room, was blundering over a home letter, when Cuff, entering, bade him go upon some message, of which tarts were probablythe subject. 

"I can't, " says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter. "

"You _can't?_" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (in which manywords were scratched out, many were misspelt, on which had been spent Idon't know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for the poor fellowwas writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she was agrocer's wife, and lived in a back parlour in Thames Street). "You_can't?"_ says Mr. Cuff. "I should like to know why, pray? Can't youwrite to old Mother Figs tomorrow?"

"Don't call names, " Dobbin said, getting off the bench, very nervous. 

"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school. 

"Put down the letter, " Dobbin replied; "no gentleman readth letterth. "

"Well, _now_ will you go?" says the other. 

"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll _thmash_ you, " roars out Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked that Mr. Cuffpaused, turned down his coat sleeves again, put his hands into hispockets, and walked away with a sneer. But he never meddled personallywith the grocer's boy after that; though we must do him the justice tosay he always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt behind his back. 

Some time after this interview it happened that Mr. Cuff, on a sunshinyafternoon, was in the neighbourhood of poor William Dobbin, who was lyingunder a tree in the playground, spelling over a favourite copy of the"Arabian Nights" which he had--apart from the rest of the school, whowere pursuing their various sports--quite lonely, and almost happy. 

Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, and was away withSindbad the Sailor in the Valley of Diamonds, or with Prince Ahmed andthe Fairy Peribanou in that delightful cavern where the Prince found her, and whither we should all like to make a tour, when shrill cries, as of alittle fellow weeping, woke up his pleasant reverie, and, looking up, hesaw Cuff before him, belabouring a little boy. 

It was the lad who had peached upon him about the grocer's cart, but hebore little malice, not at least towards the young and small. "How dareyou, sir, break the bottle?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging ayellow cricket-stump over him. 

The boy had been instructed to get over the playground wall (at aselected spot where the broken glass had been removed from the top, andniches made convenient in the brick), to run a quarter of a mile, topurchase a pint of rum-shrub on credit, to brave all the Doctor'soutlying spies, and to clamber back into the playground again; during theperformance of which feat his foot had slipped, and the bottle broken, and the shrub had been spilt, and his pantaloons had been damaged, and heappeared before his employer a perfectly guilty and trembling, thoughharmless, wretch. 

"How dare you, sir, break it?" says Cuff; "you blundering little thief. You drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle. Holdout your hand, sir. "

Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the child's hand. A moanfollowed. Dobbin looked up. The Fairy Peribanou had fled into the inmostcavern with Prince Ahmed; the Roc had whisked away Sindbad, the Sailor, out of the Valley of Diamonds, out of sight, far into the clouds; andthere was every-day life before honest William; and a big boy beating alittle one without cause. 

"Hold out your other hand, sir, " roars Cuff to his little school-fellow, whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin quivered, and gathered himselfup in his narrow old clothes. 

"Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff, and down came the wicketagain on the child's hand. Down came the wicket again, and Dobbinstarted up. 

I can't tell what his motive was. Perhaps his foolish soul revoltedagainst that exercise of tyranny, or perhaps he had a hankeringfeeling of revenge in his mind, and longed to measure himself againstthat splendid bully and tyrant, who had all the glory, pride, pomp, circumstance, banners flying, drums beating, guards saluting, in theplace. Whatever may have been his incentive, however, up he sprang, and screamed out, "Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child any more, or I'll--"

"Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at this interruption. "Hold outyour hand, you little beast. "

"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life, " Dobbinsaid, in reply to the first part of Cuff's sentence; and the littlelad, Osborne, gasping and in tears, looked up with wonder andincredulity at seeing this amazing champion put up suddenly to defendhim, while Cuff's astonishment was scarcely less. Fancy our latemonarch George III. , when he heard of the revolt of the North Americancolonies; fancy brazen Goliath when little David stepped forward andclaimed a meeting; and you have the feeling of Mr. Reginald Cuff whenthis encounter was proposed to him. 

"After school, " says he, "of course, " after a pause and a look, as muchas to say, "Make your will, and communicate your last wishes to yourfriends between this time and that. "

"As you please, " Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle-holder, Osborne. "

"Well, if you like, " little Osborne replied; for you see his papa kept acarriage, and he was rather ashamed of his champion. 

Yes, when the hour of battle came he was almost ashamed to say, "Go it, Figs"; and not a single other boy in the place uttered that cry for thefirst two or three rounds of this famous combat; at the commencement ofwhich the scientific Cuff, with a contemptuous smile on his face, and aslight and as gay as if he was at a ball, planted his blows upon hisadversary, and floored that unlucky champion three times running. At eachfall there was a cheer, and everybody was anxious to have the honour ofoffering the conqueror a knee. 

"What a licking I shall get when it's over, " young Osborne thought, picking up his man. "You'd best give in, " he said to Dobbin; "it's only athrashing, Figs, and you know I'm used to it. " But Figs, all whose limbswere in a quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his littlebottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time. 

As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows that were aimed athimself, and Cuff had begun the attack on the three preceding occasionswithout ever allowing his enemy to strike, Figs now determined that hewould commence the engagement by a charge on his own part; and, accordingly, being a left-handed man, brought that arm into action, andhit out a couple of times with all his might--once at Mr. Cuff's lefteye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose. 

Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the assembly. "Well hit, by Jove, " says little Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur, clappinghis man on the back. "Give it to him with the left, Figs, my boy. "

Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the combat. Cuffwent down every time. At the sixth round there were almost as manyfellows shouting out, "Go it, Figs, " as there were youths exclaiming, "Goit, Cuff. " At the twelfth round the latter champion was all abroad, asthe saying is, and had lost all presence of mind and power of attack ordefence. Figs, on the contrary, was as calm as a Quaker. His face beingquite pale, his eyes shining open, and a great cut on his under lipbleeding profusely, gave this young fellow a fierce and ghastly air, which perhaps struck terror into many spectators. Nevertheless, hisintrepid adversary prepared to close for the thirteenth time. 

If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell's Life, I should like to describethis combat properly. It was the last charge of the Guard--(that is, it_would_ have been, only Waterloo had not yet taken place); it was Ney'scolumn breasting the hill of La Haye Sainte, bristling with ten thousandbayonets, and crowned with twenty eagles; it was the shout of thebeef-eating British, as, leaping down the hill, they rushed to hug theenemy in the savage arms of battle; in other words, Cuff, coming up fullof pluck, but quite reeling and groggy, the Fig-merchant put in his leftas usual on his adversary's nose, and sent him down for the last time. 

"I think _that_ will do for him, " Figs said, as his opponent dropped asneatly on the green as I have seen Jack Spot's ball plump into the pocketat billiards; and the fact is, when time was called, Mr. Reginald Cuffwas not able, or did not choose, to stand up again. 

And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would have made youthink he had been their darling champion through the whole battle; and asabsolutely brought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious to know thecause of the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs violently, of course; butCuff, who had come to himself by this time, and was washing his wounds, stood up and said, "It's my fault, sir--not Figs's--not Dobbin's. I wasbullying a little boy; and he served me right. " By which magnanimousspeech he not only saved his conqueror a whipping, but got back all hisascendancy over the boys which his defeat had nearly cost him. 

Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of the transaction:

 * * * * *

SUGARCANE HOUSE, RICHMOND, March 18--

_Dear Mamma_: I hope you are quite well. I should be much obligedto you to send me a cake and five shillings. There has been a fight herebetween Cuff & Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the School. They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff is now OnlySecond Cock. The fight was about me. Cuff was licking me for breakinga bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call him Figsbecause his father is a Grocer--Figs & Rudge, Thames St. , City. Ithink as he fought for me you ought to buy your Tea & Sugar at hisfather's. Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can't this, because he has2 Black Eyes. He has a white Pony to come and fetch him, and a groomand livery on a bay mare. I wish my Papa would let me have a Pony, and I am

Your dutiful Son, GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE. 

P. S. --Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her out a Coach incard-board. Please not a seed-cake, but a plum-cake. 

 * * * * *

In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose prodigiously inthe estimation of all his school fellows, and the name of Figs, which hadbeen a byword of reproach, became as respectable and popular a nicknameas any other in use in the school. "After all, it's not his fault thathis father's a grocer, " George Osborne said, who, though a little chap, had a very high popularity among the Swishtail youth; and his opinion wasreceived with great applause. It was voted low to sneer at Dobbin aboutthis accident of birth. "Old Figs" grew to be a name of kindness andendearment, and the sneak of an usher jeered at him no longer. 

And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances. He madewonderful advances in scholastic learning. The superb Cuff himself, atwhose condenscension Dobbin could only blush and wonder, helped him onwith his Latin verses, "coached" him in play-hours, carried himtriumphantly out of the little-boy class into the middle-sized form, andeven there got a fair place for him. It was discovered that, althoughdull at classical learning, at mathematics he was uncommonly quick. Tothe contentment of all he passed third in Algebra, and got a Frenchprize-book at the public Midsummer examination. You should have seen hismother's face when Telemaque (that delicious romance) was presented tohim by the Doctor in the face of the whole school and the parents andcompany, with an inscription to Guielmo Dobbin. All the boys clappedhands in token of applause and sympathy. His blushes, his stumbles, hisawkwardness, and the number of feet which he crushed as he went back tohis place, who shall describe or calculate? Old Dobbin, his father, whonow respected him for the first time, gave him two guineas publicly; mostof which he spent in a general tuck-out for the school: and he came backin a tail-coat after the holidays. 

Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose that this happychange in all his circumstances arose from his own generous and manlydisposition; he chose, from some perverseness, to attribute his goodfortune to the sole agency and benevolence of little George Osborne, towhom henceforth he vowed such a love and affection as is only felt bychildren, an affection as we read of in the charming fairy-book, whichuncouth Orson had for splendid young Valentine, his conqueror. He flunghimself down at little Osborne's feet, and loved him. Even before theywere acquainted, he had admired Osborne in secret. Now he was his valet, his dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne to be the possessor ofevery perfection, to be the handsomest, the bravest, the most active, the cleverest, the most generous of boys. He shared his money with him, bought him uncountable presents of knives, pencil cases, gold seals, toffee, little warblers, and romantic books, with large colouredpictures of knights and robbers, in many of which latter you might readinscriptions to George Sedley Osborne, Esquire, from his attached friendWilliam Dobbin--which tokens of homage George received very graciously, as became his superior merit, as often and as long as they wereproffered him. 

In after years Dobbin's father, the despised grocer, became Alderman, andColonel of the City Light Horse, in which corps George Osborne's fatherwas but an indifferent Corporal. Colonel Dobbin was knighted by hissovereign, which honour placed his son William in a social position abovethat of the old school friends who had once been so scornful of him atSwishtail Academy; even above the object of his deepest admiration, George Osborne. 

But this did not in the least alter honest, simple-minded WilliamDobbin's feelings, and his adoration for young Osborne remainedunchanged. The two entered the army in the same regiment, and servedtogether, and Dobbin's attachment for George was as warm and loyal thenas when they were school-boys together. 

Honest William Dobbin, --I would that there were more such staunchcomrades as you to answer to the name of friend!

GEORGE OSBORNE--RAWDON CRAWLEY

[Illustration: GEORGE OSBORNE AND RAWDON CRAWLEY. ]

Rebecca sharp, the teacher of French at Miss Pinkerton's Academy foryoung ladies, and intimate friend of Miss Amelia Sedley, the most popularscholar in Miss Pinkerton's select establishment, left the institution atthe same time to become a governess in the family of Sir Pitt Crawley. Amelia was the only daughter of John Sedley, a wealthy London stockbroker, and upon leaving school was to take her place in fashionablesociety. Being the sweetest, most kind-hearted girl in the world, Ameliainvited Becky to visit her in London before taking up her new duties asgoverness; which invitation Becky was only too glad to accept. 

Now, Miss Sharp was in no way like the gentle Amelia, but as keen, brilliant, and selfish a young person of eighteen as ever schemed to haveevents turn to her advantage. These characteristics she showed so plainlywhile visiting at the Sedleys' that she left anything but a goodimpression behind her. In fact, her visit was cut short because of someunpleasant circumstances connected with her behaviour. 

From that time she and Amelia did not meet for many months, during whichAmelia had become the wife of George Osborne, and Rebecca Sharp hadmarried Rawdon Crawley, son of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet. 

The circumstances of Amelia's life during these months altered greatly, for shortly after she left school honest John Sedley met with such severelosses that his family were obliged to live in a much more modest waythan formerly. Because of this misfortune, the course of Amelia's loveaffair with young Lieutenant Osborne did not run smoothly; for his fatherwas far too ambitious to consent to his only son's marriage with thedaughter of a ruined man, although John Sedley was his son's godfather, and George had been devoted to Amelia since early boyhood. 

Lieutenant Osborne therefore went away with his regiment, and poor littleAmelia was left behind, to pine and mourn until it seemed there was nohope of saving her life unless happiness should speedily come to her. Then it was that Major Dobbin, George Osborne's staunch friend ofschooldays, and also an ardent admirer of Amelia's, saw how she wasgrieving and took upon himself to inform George Osborne of the state ofaffairs. The young lieutenant came hurrying home just in time to save agentle little heart from wearing itself away with sorrowing, and marriedAmelia without his father's consent. This so enraged the old gentlemanthat he refused to have his name mentioned in the home where the boy hadgrown up; the veriest tyrant and idol of his sisters and father. 

To Brighton George and Amelia went on their honeymoon, and there they metBecky Sharp and her husband. Though the circumstances of the two youngwomen's career had altered, Amelia and Becky were unchanged in character, but that is of small concern to us, except as it affects their children, to whose lives we now turn with keen interest, noting how they reflectthe dispositions, and are affected by the characters of their mothers. 

As for little Rawdon Crawley, Becky's only child, he had few early happyrecollections of his mother. She had not, to say the truth, seen much ofthe young gentleman since his birth. After the amiable fashion of Frenchmothers, she had placed him out at nurse in a village in theneighbourhood of Paris, where little Rawdon lived, not unhappily, with anumerous family of foster brothers in wooden shoes. His father, who wasdevotedly attached to the little fellow, would ride over many a time tosee him here, and the elder Rawdon's paternal heart glowed to see himrosy and dirty, shouting lustily, and happy in the making of mud-piesunder the superintendence of the gardener's wife, his nurse. 

Rebecca, however, did not care much to go and see her son and heir, whoas a result preferred his nurse's caresses to his mamma's, and whenfinally he quitted that jolly nurse, he cried loudly for hours. He wasonly consoled by his mother's promise that he should return to his nursethe next day; which promise, it is needless to say, was not kept; insteadthe boy was consigned to the care of a French maid, Genevieve, while hismother was seldom with him, and the French woman was so neglectful of heryoung charge that at one time he very narrowly escaped drowning on Calaissands, where Genevieve had left and lost him. 

So with little care and less love his childhood passed until presentlyhe went with his father and mother, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley, to London, to their new home in Curzon Street, Mayfair. There little Rawdon's timewas mostly spent hidden upstairs in a garret somewhere, or crawlingbelow into the kitchen for companionship. His mother scarcely ever tooknotice of him. He passed the days with his French nurse as long as sheremained in the family, and when she went away, a housemaid tookcompassion on the little fellow, who was howling in the loneliness ofthe night, and got him out of his solitary nursery into her bed in thegarret and comforted him. 

Rebecca, her friend, my Lord Steyne, and one or two more were in thedrawing-room taking tea after the opera, when this shouting was heardoverhead. "It's my cherub crying for his nurse, " said his mother, who didnot offer to move and go and see the child. "Don't agitate your feelingsby going to look after him, " said Lord Steyne sardonically. "Bah!"exclaimed Becky, with a sort of blush. "He'll cry himself to sleep"; andthey fell to talking about the opera. 

Mr. Rawdon Crawley had stolen off, however, to look after his son andheir; and came back to the company when he found that honest Dolly wasconsoling the child. The Colonel's dressing-room was in those upperregions. He used to see the boy there in private. They had interviewstogether every morning when he shaved; Rawdon minor sitting on a box byhis father's side, and watching the operation with never-ceasingpleasure. He and the sire were great friends. The father would bring himsweet-meats from the dessert, and hide them in a certain old epaulet boxwhere the child went to seek them, and laughed with joy on discoveringthe treasure; laughed, but not too loud; for mamma was asleep and mustnot be disturbed. She did not go to rest until very late, and seldom roseuntil afternoon. 

His father bought the boy plenty of picture books, and crammed hisnursery with toys. Its walls were covered with pictures pasted up by thefather's own hand. He passed hours with the boy, who rode on his chest, pulled his great moustaches as if they were driving reins, and spent dayswith him in indefatigable gambols. The room was a low one, and once, whenthe child was not five years old, his father, who was tossing him wildlyup in his arms, hit the poor little chap's scull so violently against theceiling that he almost dropped him, so terrified was he at the disaster. 

Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous howl, but just as hewas going to begin, the father interposed. 

"For God's sake, Rawdy, don't wake mamma, " he cried. And the child, looking in a very hard and piteous way at his father, bit his lips, clenched his hands, and didn't cry a bit. Rawdon told that story at theclubs, at the mess, to everybody in town. "By Gad, sir, " he explained tothe public in general, "what a good plucky one that boy of mine is. Whata trump he is! I half sent his head through the ceiling, and he wouldn'tcry for fear of disturbing mother!"

Sometimes, once or twice in a week, that lady visited the upper regionsin which the child lived. She came like a vivified picture, blandlysmiling in the most beautiful new clothes and little gloves and boots. Wonderful scarfs, laces, and jewels glittered about her. She had always anew bonnet on; and flowers bloomed perpetually in it, or else magnificentcurling ostrich feathers, soft and snowy as camellias. She nodded twiceor thrice patronisingly to the little boy, who looked up from his dinneror from the pictures of soldiers he was painting. When she left the room, an odour of rose, or some other magical fragrance, lingered about thenursery. She was an unearthly being in his eyes, superior to his father, to all the world, to be worshipped and admired at a distance. To drivewith that lady in a carriage was an awful rite. He sat in the back seat, and did not dare to speak; he gazed with all his eyes at the beautifullydressed princess opposite to him. Gentlemen on splendid prancing horsescame up, and smiled and talked with her. How her eyes beamed upon all ofthem! Her hand used to quiver and wave gracefully as they passed. When hewent out with her he had his new red dress on. His old brown holland wasgood enough when he stayed at home. Sometimes, when she was away, andDolly the maid was making his bed, he came into his mother's room. It wasas the abode of a fairy to him--a mystic chamber of splendour anddelight. There in the wardrobe hung those wonderful robes--pink and blueand many-tinted. There was the jewel case, silver clasped; and a hundredrings on the dressing table. There was a cheval glass, that miracle ofart, in which he could just see his own wondering head, and thereflection of Dolly, plumping and patting the pillows of the bed. Poorlonely little benighted boy! Mother is the name for God in the lips andhearts of little children; and here was one who was worshipping a stone!

His father used to take him out of mornings, when they would go to thestables together and to the park. Little Lord Southdown, the best naturedof men, who would make you a present of a hat from his head, and whosemain occupation in life was to buy nicknacks that he might give them awayafterwards, bought the little chap a pony, not much bigger than a largerat, and on this little black Shetland pony young Rawdon's great fatherwould mount the boy, and walk by his side in the Park. 

One Sunday morning as Rawdon Crawley, his little son, and the pony weretaking their accustomed walk, they passed an old acquaintance of theColonel's, Corporal Clink, who was in conversation with an old gentleman, who held a boy in his arms about the age of little Rawdon. The otheryoungster had seized hold of the Waterloo medal which the Corporal wore, and was examining it with delight. 

"Good-morning, your honour, " said Clink, in reply to the "How do, Clink?" of the Colonel. "This 'ere young gentleman is about the littleColonel's age, sir, " continued the Corporal. 

"His father was a Waterloo man, too, " said the old gentleman who carriedthe boy. "Wasn't he, Georgie?"

"Yes, sir, " said Georgie. He and the little chap on the pony were lookingat each other with all their might, solemnly scanning each other aschildren do. 

"His father was a captain in the--the regiment, " said the old gentlemanrather pompously. "Captain George Osborne, sir--perhaps you knew him. Hedied the death of a hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican tyrant"

"I knew him very well, sir, " said Colonel Crawley, "and his wife, hisdear little wife, sir--how is she?"

"She is my daughter, sir, " said the old gentleman proudly, putting downthe boy, and taking out his card, which he handed to the Colonel, whilelittle Georgie went up and looked at the Shetland pony. 

"Should you like to have a ride?" said Rawdon minor from the saddle. 

"Yes, " said Georgie. The Colonel, who had been looking at him with someinterest, took up the child and put him on the pony behind Rawdon minor. 

"Take hold of him, Georgie, " he said; "take my little boy around thewaist; his name is Rawdon. " And both the children began to laugh. 

"You won't see a prettier pair, I think, this summer's day, sir, " saidthe good-natured Corporal; and the Colonel, the Corporal, and old Mr. Sedley, with his umbrella, walked by the side of the children, whoenjoyed each other and the pony enormously. In later years they oftentalked of that first meeting. 

But this is anticipating our story, for between the time of their firstride together, and the time when circumstances brought them togetheragain, the little chaps saw nothing of one another for a number of years, during which the incidents of their lives differed as widely as did thelives of their parents. 

About the time when the little boys first met, Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet, father of Pitt and Rawdon Crawley, died, and Rebecca and herhusband hastened to Queen's Crawley, the old family home, where Rebeccahad once been governess, to shed a last tear over the departed Baronet. Rebecca was not bowed down with grief, we must confess, but keenly aliveto the benefits which might come to herself and Rawdon if she couldplease Sir Pitt Crawley, the new Baronet, and Lady Jane his wife, asimple-minded woman mostly absorbed in the affairs of her nursery. Thisinterest aroused Becky's private scorn, but the first thing that cleverlittle lady did was to attack Lady Jane at her vulnerable point. Afterbeing conducted to the apartments prepared for her, and having taken offher bonnet and cloak, Becky asked her sister-in-law in what more shecould be useful. 

"What I should like best, " she added, "would be to see your dear littlenursery, " at which the two ladies looked very kindly at each other, andwent to the nursery hand in hand. 

Becky admired little Matilda, who was not quite four years old, as themost charming little love in the world; and the boy, Pitt BlinkieSouthdown, a little fellow of two years, pale, heavy-eyed, andlarge-headed, she pronounced to be a perfect prodigy in size, intelligence and beauty. 

The funeral over, Rebecca and her husband remained for a visit at Queen'sCrawley, which assumed its wonted aspect. Rawdon senior received constantbulletins respecting little Rawdon, who was left behind in London, andsent messages of his own. "I am very well, " he wrote. "I hope you arevery well. I hope mamma is very well. The pony is very well. Grey takesme to ride in the Park. I can canter. I met the little boy who rodebefore. He cried when he cantered. I do not cry. "

Rawdon read these letters to his brother, and Lady Jane, who wasdelighted with them, gave Rebecca a banknote, begging her to buy apresent with it for her little nephew. 

Like all other good things, the visit came to an end, and one night theLondon lamps flashed joyfully as the stage rolled into Piccadilly, andBriggs had made a beautiful fire on the hearth in Curzon Street, andlittle Rawdon was up to welcome back his papa and mamma. 

At this time he was a fine open-faced boy, with blue eyes and wavingflaxen hair, sturdy in limb, but generous and soft in heart, fondlyattaching himself to all who were good to him: to the pony, to LordSouthdown, who gave him the horse; to the groom who had charge of thepony; to Molly the cook, who crammed him with ghost stories at night andwith good things from the dinner; to Briggs, his meek, devoted attendant, whom he plagued and laughed at; and to his father especially. Here, as hegrew to be about eight years old, his attachment may be said to haveended. The beautiful mother vision had faded away after a while. Duringnearly two years his mother had scarcely spoken to the child. Shedisliked him. He had the measles and the whooping cough. He bored her. One day when he was standing at the landing-place, having crept down fromthe upper regions, attracted by the sound of his mother's voice, who wassinging to Lord Steyne, the drawing-room door opening suddenly discoveredthe little spy, who but a moment before had been rapt in delight andlistening to the music. 

His mother came out and struck him violently a couple of boxes on theear. He heard a laugh from the Marquis in the inner room, and fled downbelow to his friends of the kitchen, bursting in an agony of grief. 

"It is not because it hurts me, " little Rawdon gasped out, "only--only--" sobs and tears wound up the sentence in a storm. It wasthe little boy's heart that was bleeding. "Why mayn't I hear hersinging? Why don't she ever sing to me, as she does to that bald-headedman with the large teeth?" He gasped out at various intervals theseexclamations of grief and rage. The cook looked at the housemaid; thehousemaid looked knowingly at the footman, who all sat in judgment onRebecca from that moment. 

After this incident the mother's dislike increased to hatred; theconsciousness that the child was in the house was a reproach and a painto her. His very sight annoyed her. Fear, doubt, and resistance sprang uptoo, in the boy's own bosom. 

He and his mother were separated from that day of the boxes on the ear. 

Lord Steyne also disliked the boy. When they met he made sarcastic bowsor remarks to the child, or glared at him with savage-looking eyes. Rawdon used to stare him in the face and double his little fists inreturn. Had it not been for his father, the child would have beendesolate indeed, in his own home. 

But an unexpected good time came to him a day or two before Christmas, when he was taken by his father and mother to pass the holidays atQueen's Crawley. Becky would have liked to leave him at home, but forLady Jane's urgent invitation to the youngster; and the symptoms ofrevolt and discontent manifested by Rawdon at her neglect of her son. "Heis the finest boy in England, " the father said reproachfully, "and youdon't seem to care for him as much as you do for your spaniel. He shan'tbother you much; at home he will be away from you in the nursery, and heshall go outside on the coach with me. "

So little Rawdon was wrapped up in shawls and comforters for the winter'sjourney, and hoisted respectfully onto the roof of the coach in the darkmorning; with no small delight watched the dawn arise, and made his firstjourney to the place which his father still called home. It was a journeyof infinite pleasure to the boy, to whom the incidents of the roadafforded endless interest; his father answering all questions connectedwith it, and telling him who lived in the great white house to the right, and whom the park belonged to. 

Presently the boy fell asleep, and it was dark when he was wakened up toenter his uncle's carriage at Mudbury, and he sat and looked out of itwondering as the great iron gates flew open, and at the white trunks ofthe limes as they swept by, until they stopped at length before thelighted windows of the Hall, which were blazing and comfortable withChristmas welcome. The hall-door was flung open; a big fire was burningin the great old fireplace, a carpet was down over the chequered blackflags, and the next instant Becky was kissing Lady Jane. 

She and Sir Pitt performed the same salute with great gravity, while SirPitt's two children came up to their cousin. Matilda held out her handand kissed him. Pitt Blinkie Southdown, the son and heir, stood aloof, and examined him as a little dog does a big one. 

Then the kind hostess conducted her guests to snug apartments blazingwith cheerful fires, and after some conversation with the fine youngladies of the house, the great dinner bell having rung, the familyassembled at dinner, at which meal Rawdon junior was placed by his aunt, and exhibited not only a fine appetite, but a gentlemanlike behaviour. 

"I like to dine here, " he said to his aunt when he had completed hismeal, at the conclusion of which, and after a decent grace by Sir Pitt, the younger son and heir was introduced and was perched on a high chairby the Baronet's side, while the daughter took possession of the placeprepared for her, near her mother. "I like to dine here, " said Rawdonminor, looking up at his relation's kind face. 

"Why?" said the good Lady Jane. 

"I dine in the kitchen when I am at home, " replied Rawdon minor, "or elsewith Briggs. " This honest confession was fortunately not heard by Becky, who was deep in conversation with the Baronet, or it might have beenworse for little Rawdon. 

As a guest, and it being the first night of his arrival, he was allowedto sit up until the hour when, tea being over and a great gilt book beinglaid on the table before Sir Pitt, all the domestics of the familystreamed in and Sir Pitt read prayers. It was the first time the poorlittle boy had ever witnessed or heard of such a ceremonial. 

Queen's Crawley had been much improved since the young Baronet's briefreign, and was pronounced by Becky to be perfect, charming, delightful, when she surveyed it in his company. As for little Rawdon, who examinedit with the children for his guides, it seemed to him a perfect palace ofenchantment and wonder. There were long galleries, and ancient statebed-rooms; there were pictures and old china and armour which enchantedlittle Rawdon, who had never seen their like before, and who, poor child, had never before been in such an atmosphere of kindness and good cheer. 

On Christmas day a great family gathering took place, and one and allagreed that little Rawdon was a fine boy. They respected a possibleBaronet in the boy between whom and the title there was only the littlesickly, pale Pitt Blinkie. 

The children were very good friends. Pitt Blinkie was too little a dogfor such a big dog as Rawdon to play with, and Matilda, being only agirl, of course not fit companion for a young gentleman who was neareight years old, and going into jackets very soon. He took the command ofthis small party at once, the little girl and the little boy followinghim about with great reverence at such times as he condescended to sportwith them. His happiness and pleasure in the country were extreme. Thekitchen-garden pleased him hugely, the flowers moderately; but thepigeons and the poultry, and the stables, when he was allowed to visitthem, were delightful objects to him. He resisted being kissed by theMisses Crawley; but he allowed Lady Jane sometimes to embrace him, and itwas by her side that he liked to sit rather than by his mother. Rebecca, seeing that tenderness was the fashion, called Rawdon to her one evening, and stooped down and kissed him in the presence of all the ladies. 

He looked her full in the face after the operation, trembling and turningvery red, as his wont was when moved. "You never kiss me at home, Mamma, "he said; at which there was a general silence and consternation, and byno means a pleasant look in Becky's eyes; but she was obliged to allowthe incident to pass in silence. 

But the greatest day of all was that on which Sir HuddlestoneFuddlestone's hounds met upon the lawn at Queen's Crawley. 

That was a famous sight for little Rawdon. At half-past ten Tom Moody, Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's huntsman, was seen trotting up the avenue, followed by the noble pack of hounds in a compact body, the rear beingbrought up by the two whips clad in stained scarlet frocks, light, hard-featured lads on well-bred lean horses, possessing marvellousdexterity in casting the points of their long, heavy whips at thethinnest part of any dog's skin who dared to straggle from the main body, or to take the slightest notice, or even so much as wink at the hares andrabbits starting under their noses. 

Next came boy Jack, Tom Moody's son, who weighed five stone, measuredeight and forty inches, and would never be any bigger. He was perched ona large raw-boned hunter, half covered by a capacious saddle. This animalwas Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's favourite horse, the Nob. Other horsesridden by other small boys arrived from time to time, awaiting theirmasters, who came cantering on anon. 

Tom Moody rode up presently, and he and his pack drew off into asheltered corner of the lawn, where the dogs rolled on the grass, andplayed or growled angrily at one another, ever and anon breaking out intofurious fights, speedily to be quelled by Tom's voice, unmatched atrating, or the snaky thongs of the whips. 

Many young gentlemen cantered up on thoroughbred hacks, spatter-dashed tothe knee, and entered the house to pay their respects to the ladies, or, more modest and sportsmanlike, divested themselves of their mud-boots, exchanged their hacks for their hunters, and warmed their blood by apreliminary gallop round the lawn. Then they collected round the pack inthe corner, and talked with Tom Moody of past sport, and the merits ofSniveller and Diamond, and of the state of the country and of thewretched breed of foxes. 

Sir Huddlestone presently appears mounted on a clever cob, and rides upto the Hall, where he enters and does the civil thing by the ladies, after which, being a man of few words, he proceeds to business. Thehounds are drawn up to the hall-door, and little Rawdon descends amongthem, excited yet half alarmed by the caresses which they bestow uponhim, at the thumps he receives from their waving tails, and at theircanine bickerings, scarcely restrained by Tom Moody's tongue and lash. 

Meanwhile, Sir Huddlestone has hoisted himself unwieldily on the Nob. "Let's try Sowster's Spinney, Tom, " says the Baronet; "Farmer Mangletells me there are two foxes in it. " Tom blows his horn and trots off, followed by the pack, by the whips, by the young gents from Winchester, by the farmers of the neighbourhood, by the labourers of the parish onfoot, with whom the day is a great holiday; Sir Huddlestone bringing upthe rear with Colonel Crawley; and the whole train of hounds and horsemendisappears down the avenue, leaving little Rawdon alone on the doorsteps, wondering and happy. 

During the progress of this memorable holiday little Rawdon, if he hadgot no special liking for his uncle, always awful and cold, and locked upin his study, plunged in justice business and surrounded by bailiffs andfarmers, has gained the good graces of his married and maiden aunts, ofthe two little folks of the Hall, and of Jim of the Rectory, and he hadbecome extremely fond of Lady Jane, who told such beautiful stories withthe children clustered about her knees. Naturally, after having his firstglimpse of happy home life and his first taste of genuine motherlyaffection, it was a sad day to little Rawdon when he was obliged toreturn to Curzon Street. But there was an unexpected pleasure awaitinghim on his return. Lord Steyne, though he wasted no affection upon theboy, yet for reasons of his own concerning only himself and Mrs. Becky, extended his good will to little Rawdon. Wishing to have the boy out ofhis way, he pointed out to Rawdon's parents the necessity of sending himto a public school; that he was of an age now when emulation, the firstprinciples of the Latin language, pugilistic exercises, and the societyof his fellow boys would be of the greatest benefit to him. His fatherobjected that he was not rich enough to send the child to a good school;his mother, that Briggs was a capital mistress for him, and had broughthim on, as indeed was the fact, famously in English, Latin, and ingeneral learning; but all these objections were overruled by the Marquisof Steyne. His lordship was one of the Governors of that famous oldcollegiate institution called the White Friars, where he desired thatlittle Rawdon should be sent, and sent he was; for Rawdon Crawley, thoughthe only book which he studied was the racing calendar, and though hischief recollections of learning were connected with the floggings whichhe received at Eton in his early youth, had that reverence for classicallearning which all English gentlemen feel, and was glad to think that hisson was to have the chance of becoming a scholar. And although his boywas his chief solace and companion, he agreed at once to part with himfor the sake of the welfare of the little lad. 

It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the boy which he wasto take to school. Molly, the housemaid, blubbered in the passage when hewent away. Mrs. Becky could not let her husband have the carriage to takethe boy to school. Take the horses into the city! Such a thing was neverheard of. Let a cab be brought. She did not offer to kiss him when hewent, nor did the child propose to embrace her, but gave a kiss to oldBriggs and consoled her by pointing out that he was to come home onSaturdays, when she would have the benefit of seeing him. As the cabrolled towards the city Becky's carriage rattled off to the park. Shegave no thought to either of them when the father and son entered at theold gates of the school, where Rawdon left the child, then walked homevery dismally, and dined alone with Briggs, to whom he was grateful forher love and watchfulness over the boy. They talked about little Rawdon along time, and Mr. Crawley went off to drink tea with Lady Jane, who wasvery fond of Rawdon, as was her little girl, who cried bitterly when thetime for her cousin's departure came. Rawdon senior now told Lady Janehow little Rawdon went off like a trump, and how he was to wear a gownand little knee breeches, and Jack Blackball's son of the old regimenthad taken him in charge and promised to be kind to him. 

The Colonel went to see his son a short time afterwards, and found thelad sufficiently well and happy, grinning and laughing in his littleblack gown and little breeches. As a protege of the great Lord Steyne, the nephew of a county member, and son of a Colonel and C. B. Whosenames appeared in some of the most fashionable parties in the MorningPost, perhaps the school authorities were disposed not to look unkindlyon the child. 

He had plenty of pocket-money, which he spent in treating his comradesroyally to raspberry tarts, and he was often allowed to come home onSaturdays to his father, who always made a jubilee of that day. Whenfree, Rawdon would take him to the play, or send him thither with thefootman; and on Sundays he went to church with Briggs and Lady Jane andhis cousins. Rawdon marvelled over his stories about school, and fights, and fagging. Before long he knew the names of all the masters and theprincipal boys as well as little Rawdon himself. He invited littleRawdon'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 theLatin 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'snothing like a good classical education! Nothing!"

While little Rawdon was still one of the fifty gown-boys of White Friarschool, the Colonel, his poor father, got into great trouble through nofault of his own, but as a result of which Mrs. Becky was obliged to makeher exit from Curzon Street forever, and the Colonel in bitter dejectionand humiliation accepted an appointment as Governor of Coventry Island. For some time he resisted the idea of taking this place, because it hadbeen procured for him through the influence of Lord Steyne, whosepatronage was odious to him, as he had been the means of ruining theColonel's homelife. The Colonel's instinct also was for at once removingthe boy from the school where Lord Steyne's interest had placed him. Hewas induced, however, not to do this, and little Rawden was allowed toround out his days in the school, where he was very happy. After hismother's departure from Curzon Street she disappeared entirely from herson's life, and never made any movement to see the child. 

He went home to his aunt, Lady Jane, for Sundays and holidays; and soonknew every bird's-nest about Queen's Crawley, and rode out with SirHuddlestone's hounds, which he had admired so on his firstwell-remembered visit to the home of his ancestor. In fact, Rawdon wasconsigned to the entire guardianship of his aunt and uncle, to whom hewas fortunately deeply devoted; and although he received several lettersat various times from his mother, they made little impression upon him, and indeed it was easy to see where his affections were placed. When SirPitt's only boy died of whooping-cough and measles--then Mrs. Becky wrotethe most affectionate letter to her darling son, who was made heir ofQueen's Crawley by this accident, and drawn more closely than ever by itto Lady Jane, whose tender heart had already adopted him. Rawdon Crawley, then grown a tall, fine lad, blushed when he got the letter. 

"Oh, Aunt Jane, you are my mother!" he said; "and not--and not _that_one!" But he wrote a kind and respectful letter in response to Mrs. Becky, and the incident was closed. As for the Colonel, he wrote to theboy regularly every mail from his post on Coventry Island, and littleRawdon used to like to get the papers and read about his Excellency, hisfather, of whom he had been truly fond. But the image gradually faded asthe images of childhood do fade, and each year he grew more tenderlyattached to Lady Jane and her husband, who had become father and motherto him in his hour of need. 

As for George Osborne, the little boy whom Rawdon Crawley had given aride on his pony long years before, the fates had been much kinder to himthan to Rawdon. He had had no lonely childhood, for although he had norecollection of his handsome young father, from baby days he wassurrounded by the utmost adoration by a doting mother. Poor Amelia, deprived of the husband whom she adored, lavished all the pent-up love ofher gentle bosom upon the little boy with the eyes of George who wasgone--a little boy as beautiful as a cherub, and there was never a momentwhen the child missed any office which love or affection could give him. His grandfather Sedley also adored the child, and it was the old man'sdelight to take out his little grandson to the neighbouring parks ofKensington Gardens, to see the soldiers or to feed the ducks. Georgieloved the red coats, and his grandpapa told him how his father had been afamous soldier, and introduced him to many sergeants and others withWaterloo medals on their breasts, to whom the old grandfather pompouslypresented the child; as on the occasion of their meeting with ColonelRawdon Crawley and his little son. 

Old Sedley was disposed to spoil little Georgie, sadly gorging the boywith apples and peppermint to the detriment of his health, until Ameliadeclared that Georgie should never go out with his grandpapa again unlessthe latter solemnly promised on his honour not to give the child anycakes, lollipops, or stall produce whatever. 

Amelia's days were full of active employment, for besides caring forGeorgie, she devoted much time to her old father and mother, with whomshe and the child lived, and who were much broken by their financialreverses. She also personally superintended her little son's educationfor several years. She taught him to read and to write, and a little todraw. She read books, in order that she might tell him stories. As hiseyes opened, and his mind expanded, she taught him to the best of herhumble power to acknowledge the Maker of All; and every night and everymorning he and she--the mother and the little boy--prayed to our Fathertogether, the mother pleading with all her gentle heart, the childlisping after her as she spoke. And each time they prayed to God to blessdear papa, as if he were alive and in the room with them. 

Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, as an army officer's widow, there had been five hundred pounds left with the agent of her estate forher, for which Amelia did not know that she was indebted to Major Dobbin, until years later. This same Major, by the way, was stationed at Madras, where twice or thrice in the year she wrote to him about herself and theboy, and he in turn sent over endless remembrances to his godson and toher. He sent a box of scarfs, and a grand ivory set of chess-men fromChina. The pawns were little green and white men, with real swords andshields; the knights were on horseback, the castles were on the backs ofelephants. These chessmen were the delight of Georgie's life, who printedhis first letter of acknowledgment of this gift of his godpapa. MajorDobbin also sent over preserves and pickles, which latter the younggentleman tried surreptitiously in the sideboard, and half killed himselfwith eating. He thought it was a judgment upon him for stealing, theywere so hot. Amelia wrote a comical little account of this mishap to theMajor; it pleased him to think that her spirits were rallying, and thatshe could be merry sometimes now. He sent over a pair of shawls, a whiteone for her, and a black one with palm-leaves for her mother, and a pairof red scarfs, as winter wrappers, for old Mr. Sedley and George. Theshawls were worth fifty guineas apiece, at the very least, as Mrs. Sedleyknew. She wore hers in state at church at Brompton, and was congratulatedby her female friends upon the splendid acquisition. Amelia's, too, became prettily her modest black gown. 

Amidst humble scenes and associates Georgie's early youth was passed, andthe boy grew up delicate, sensitive, imperious, woman-bred--domineeringover the gentle mother whom he loved with passionate affection. He ruledall the rest of the little world round about him. As he grew, the elderswere amazed at his haughty manner and his constant likeness to hisfather. He asked questions about everything, as inquiring youth will do. The profundity of his remarks and questions astonished his oldgrandfather, who perfectly bored the club at the tavern with storiesabout the little lad's learning and genius. He suffered his grandmotherwith a good-humoured indifference. The small circle round about himbelieved that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the earth. Georgieinherited his father's pride, and perhaps thought they were not wrong. 

When he grew to be about six years old, Dobbin began to write to him verymuch. The Major wanted to hear that Georgie was going to a school, andhoped he would acquit himself with credit there; or would he have a goodtutor at home? It was time that he should begin to learn; and hisgodfather and guardian hinted that he hoped to be allowed to defray thecharges of the boy's education, which would fall heavily upon hismother's straitened income. The Major, in a word, was always thinkingabout Amelia and her little boy, and by orders to his agents kept thelatter provided with picture-books, paint-boxes, desks, and allconceivable implements of amusement and instruction. Three days beforeGeorgie's sixth birthday a gentleman in a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove up to Mrs. Sedley's house and asked to be conducted to MasterGeorge Osborne. It was Woolsey, military tailor, who came at the Major'sorder, to measure George for a suit of clothes. He had had the honour ofmaking for the Captain, the young gentleman's father. 

Sometimes, too, the Major's sisters, the Misses Dobbin, would call in thefamily carriage to take Amelia and the little boy a drive. The patronageof these ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia, but she bore it meeklyenough, for her nature was to yield; and besides, the carriage and itssplendours gave little Georgie immense pleasure. The ladies beggedoccasionally that the child might pass a day with them, and he was alwaysglad to go to that fine villa on Denmark Hill, where there were suchfine grapes in the hot-house and peaches on the walls. 

Miss Osborne, Georgie's aunt, who, since old Osborne's quarrel with hisson, had not been allowed to have any intercourse with Amelia or littleGeorgie, was kept acquainted with the state of Amelia's affairs by theMisses Dobbin, who told how she was living with her father and mother;how poor they were; but how the boy was really the noblest little boyever seen; which praise raised a great desire to see the child in theheart of his maiden aunt, and one night when he came back from DenmarkHill in the pony carriage in which he rejoiced, he had round his neck afine gold chain and watch. He said an old lady, not pretty, had beenthere and had given it to him, who cried and kissed him a great deal. Buthe didn't like her. He liked grapes very much and he only liked hismamma. Amelia shrunk and started; she felt a presentiment of terror, forshe knew that Georgie's relations had seen him. 

Miss Osborne, --for it was indeed she who had seen Georgie, --went homethat night to give her father his dinner. He was in rather a good-humour, and chanced to remark her excitement "What's the matter, Miss Osborne?"he deigned to ask. 

The woman burst into tears. "Oh, sir, " she said, "I've seen littleGeorgie. He is as beautiful as an angel--and so like _him!_"

The old man opposite to her did not say a word, but flushed up, and beganto tremble in every limb, and that night he bade his daughter good-nightin rather a kindly voice. And he must have made some inquiries of theMisses Dobbin regarding her visit to them when she had seen Georgie, fora fortnight afterwards he asked her where was her little French watch andchain she used to wear. 

"I bought it with my money, sir, " she said in a great fright, not daringto tell what she had done with it. 

"Go and order another like it, or a better, if you can get it, " said theold gentleman, and lapsed again into silence. 

After that time the Misses Dobbin frequently invited Georgie to visitthem, and hinted to Amelia that his aunt had shown her inclination;perhaps his grandfather himself might be disposed to be reconciled to himin time. Surely, Amelia could not refuse such advantageous chances forthe boy. Nor could she; but she acceded to their overtures with a veryheavy and suspicious heart, was always uneasy during the child's absencefrom her, and welcomed him back as if he was rescued out of some danger. He brought back money and toys, at which the widow looked with alarm andjealousy; she asked him always if he had seen any gentleman. "Only oldSir William, who drove him about in the four-wheeled chaise, and Mr. Dobbin, who arrived on the beautiful bay horse in the afternoon, in thegreen coat and pink neckcloth, with the gold-headed whip, who promised toshow him the Tower of London and take him out with the Surrey hounds. " Atlast he said: "There was an old gentleman, with thick eyebrows and abrown hat and large chain and seals. He came one day as the coachman wasleading Georgie around the lawn on the grey pony. He looked at me verymuch. He shook very much. I said, 'My name is Norval, ' after dinner. Myaunt began to cry. She is always crying. " Such was George's report onthat night. 

Then Amelia knew that the boy had seen his grandfather; and looked outfeverishly for a proposal which she was sure would follow, and whichcame, in fact, a few days afterwards. Mr. Osborne formally offered totake the boy, and make him heir to the fortune which he had intendedthat his father should inherit. He would make Mrs. George Osborne anallowance, such as to assure her a decent competency. But it must beunderstood that the child would live entirely with his grandfather and beonly occasionally permitted to see Mrs. George Osborne at her own home. This message was brought to her in a letter one day. She had only beenseen angry a few times in her life, but now Mr. Osborne's lawyer sobeheld her. She rose up trembling and flushing very much after readingthe letter, and she tore the paper into a hundred fragments, which shetrod on. "_I_ take money to part from my child! Who dares insult meproposing such a thing? Tell Mr. Osborne it is a cowardly letter, sir--acowardly letter--I will not answer it! I wish you good-morning, " and shebowed the lawyer out of the room like a tragedy queen. 

Her parents did not remark her agitation on that day. They were absorbedin their own affairs, and the old gentleman, her father, was deep inspeculation, in which he was sinking the remittances regularly sent fromIndia by his son, Joseph, for the support of his aged parents; and alsothat portion of Amelia's slender income which she gave each month to herfather. Of this dangerous pastime of her father's Amelia was kept inignorance, until the day came when he was obliged to confess that he waspenniless. At once Amelia handed over to him what little money she hadretained for her own and Georgie's expenses. She did this without a wordof regret, but returned to her room to cry her eyes out, for she had madeplans which would now be impossible, to have a new suit made for Georgie. This she was obliged to countermand, and, hardest of all, she had tobreak the matter to Georgie, who made a loud outcry. Everybody had newclothes at Christmas. The other boys would laugh at him. He would havenew clothes, she had promised them to him. The poor widow had onlykisses to give him. She cast about among her little ornaments to see ifshe could sell anything to procure the desired novelties. She rememberedher India shawl that Dobbin sent her, which might be of value to amerchant with whom ladies had all sorts of dealings and bargains in thesearticles. She smiled brightly as she kissed away Georgie to school in themorning, and the boy felt that there was good news in her look. 

As soon as he had gone she hurried away to the merchant with her shawlhidden under her cloak. As she walked she calculated how, with theproceeds of her shawl, besides the clothes, she would buy the books thathe wanted, and pay his half year's schooling at the little school towhich he went; and how she would buy a new coat for her father. She wasnot mistaken as to the value of the shawl. It was a very fine one, forwhich the merchant gave her twenty guineas. She ran on, amazed andflurried with her riches, to a shop where she purchased the books Georgielonged for, and went home exulting. And she pleased herself by writing inthe fly leaf in her neatest little hand, "George Osborne, A Christmasgift from his affectionate mother. "

She was going to place the books on Georgie's table, when in the passageshe and her mother met. The gilt bindings of the little volumes caughtthe old lady's eye. 

"What are those?" she said. 

"Some books for Georgie, " Amelia replied. "I--I promised them to him atChristmas. "

"Books!" cried the old lady indignantly; books! when the whole housewants bread! Oh, Amelia! You break my heart with your books, and that boyof yours, whom you are ruining, though part with him you will not! Oh, Amelia, may God send you a more dutiful child than I have had! There'sJoseph deserts his father in his old age; and there's George, who mightbe rich, going to school like a lord, with a gold watch and chain roundhis neck, while my dear, dear, old man is without a sh-shilling. "Hysterical sobs ended Mrs. Sedley's grief, which quite melted Amelia'stender heart. 

"Oh, mother, mother!" she cried. "You told me nothing. I--I promisedhim the books. I--I only sold my shawl this morning. Take the money--takeeverything--" taking out her precious golden sovereigns, which shethrust into her mother's hands, and then went into her room, and sankdown in despair and utter misery. She saw it all. Her selfishness wassacrificing the boy. But for her, he might have wealth, station, education, and his father's place, which the elder George had forfeitedfor her sake. She had but to speak the words, and her father was restoredto comfort, and the boy raised to fortune. Oh, what a conviction it wasto that tender and stricken heart!

The combat between inclination and duty lasted for many weeks in poorAmelia's heart. Meanwhile by every means in her power she attempted toearn money, but was always unsuccessful. Then, when matters had becometragic in the little family circle, she could bear the burden of pain nolonger. Her decision was made. For the sake of others the child must gofrom her. She must give him up, --she must--she must. 

She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did, and went out towalk in the lanes, where she was in the habit of going to meet Georgie onhis return from school. It was May, a half-holiday. The leaves were allcoming out, the weather was brilliant. The boy came running to herflushed with health, singing, his bundle of school-books hanging by athong. 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 sad. "

"Nothing, my child, " she said, and stooped down and kissed him. Thatnight Amelia made the boy read the story of Samuel to her, and howHannah, his mother, having weaned him, brought him to Eli the High Priestto minister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitude whichHannah sang; and which says: "Who is it who maketh poor and maketh rich, and bringeth low and exalteth, how the poor shall be raised up out of thedust, and how, in his own might, no man shall be strong. " Then he readhow Samuel's mother made him a little coat, and brought it to him fromyear to year when she came up to offer the yearly sacrifice. And then, inher sweet, simple way, George's mother made commentaries to the boy uponthis affecting story. How Hannah, though she loved her son so much, yetgave him up because of her vow. And how she must always have thought ofhim as she sat at home, far away, making the little coat, and Samuel, shewas sure, never forgot his mother; and how happy she must have been asthe time came when she should see her boy, and how good and wise he hadgrown. This little sermon she spoke with a gentle, solemn voice, and dryeyes, until she came to the account of their meeting. Then the discoursebroke off suddenly, the tender heart overflowed, and taking the boy toher breast, she rocked him in her arms, and wept silently over him. 

Her mind being made up, the widow began at once to take such measures asseemed right to her for achieving her purpose. One day, Miss Osborne, inRussell Square, got a letter from Amelia, which made her blush very much, and look towards her father, sitting glooming in his place at the otherend of the table. 

In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which had induced her tochange her mind respecting her boy. Her father had met with freshmisfortunes which had entirely ruined him. Her own pittance was so smallthat it would barely enable her to support her parents and would notsuffice to give George the advantages which were his due. Great as hersufferings would be at parting with him, she would, by God's help, endurethem for the boy's sake. She knew that those to whom he was going woulddo 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 stipulatedthat she should have a written agreement that she should see the child asoften 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 atremulous 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 readhis paper as usual, but he could not follow it. At last he flung it down:and scowling at his daughter, as his wont was, went out of the room andpresently 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-rodsand sporting gear, were still there. An army list of 1814, with his namewritten 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 apair 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! Thewriting-book still on the table was blotted with his hand. 

Miss Osborne was much affected when she first entered this room. She sankquite pale on the little bed. "This is blessed news, ma'am--indeed, ma'am, " the housekeeper said; "the good old times is returning! The dearlittle feller, to be sure, ma'am; how happy he will be! But some folks inMayfair, ma'am, will owe him a grudge!" and she clicked back the boltwhich held the window-sash, and let the air into the chamber. 

"You had better send that woman some money, " Mr. Osborne said, before hewent 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 lookout. She don't come in _here_, mind. But she mustn'twant now. So look out, and get things right. " With which brief speechesMr. Osborne took leave of his daughter, and went on his accustomed way. 

That night, when Amelia kissed her father, she put a bill for a hundredpounds into his hands, adding, "And--and, mamma, don't be harsh withGeorgie. He--he is not going to stop with us long. " She could say nothingmore, and walked away silently to her room. 

Miss Osborne came the next day, according to the promise contained in hernote, and saw Amelia. The meeting between them was friendly. A look and afew words from Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that there need be nofear lest she should take the first place in her son's affection. Shewas cold, sensible, not unkind. Miss Osborne, on the other hand, couldnot but be touched with the poor mother's situation, and theirarrangements were made together with kindness on both sides. 

Georgie was kept from school the next day, and saw his aunt. Days werepassed in talks, visits, preparations. The widow broke the matter to himwith great caution; and was saddened to find him rather elated thanotherwise. He bragged about the news that day to the boys at school; toldthem 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, andhave a carriage, and a pony, and go to a much finer school, and when hewas rich he would buy Leader's pencil-case, and pay the tart woman. 

At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little humble packetscontaining tokens of love and remembrance were ready and disposed in thehall long since. George was in his new suit, for which the tailor hadcome previously to measure him. He had sprung up with the sun and put onthe new clothes. Days before Amelia had been making preparations for theend; purchasing little stores for the boy's use; marking his books andlinen; talking with him and preparing him for the change, fondly fancyingthat he needed preparation. 

So that he had change, what cared he? He was longing for it. By athousand eager declarations as to what he would do when he went to livewith his grandfather, he had shown the poor widow how little the idea ofparting had cast him down. He would come and see his mamma often on thepony, he said; he would come and fetch her in the carriage; they woulddrive in the Park, and she would have everything she wanted. 

George stood by his mother, watching her final arrangements without theleast concern, then said a gay farewell, went away smiling, and the widowwas quite alone. 

The boy came to see her often, after that, to be sure. He rode on a ponywith the coachman behind him, to the delight of his old grandfather, Sedley, who walked proudly down the lane by his side. Amelia saw him, buthe was not her boy any more. Why, he rode to see the boys at the littleschool, too, and to show off before them his new wealth and splendour. Intwo days he had adopted a slightly imperious air and patronising manner, and once fairly established in his grandfather Osborne's mansion inRussell Square, won the grandsire's heart by his good looks, gallantbearing, and gentlemanlike appearance. Mr. Osborne was as proud of him asever he had been of the elder George, and the child had many moreluxuries and indulgences than had been awarded to his father. Osborne'swealth and importance in the city had very much increased of late years. He had been glad enough to put the elder George in a good private school, and a commission in the army for his son had been a source of no smallpride to him; but for little George and his future prospects the old manlooked much higher. He would make a gentleman of the little chap, acollegian, a parliament man--a baronet, perhaps. He would have none but atip-top college man to educate him. He would mourn in a solemn mannerthat his own education had been neglected, and repeatedly point out thenecessity of classical acquirements. 

When they met at dinner the grandfather used to ask the lad what he hadbeen reading during the day, and was greatly interested at the report theboy gave of his studies, pretending to understand little George when hespoke regarding them. He made a hundred blunders, and showed hisignorance many a time, which George was quick to see and which did notincrease the respect which the child had for his senior. 

In fact, as young George had lorded it over the tender, yielding natureof his mother, so the coarse pomposity of the dull old man with whom henext came in contact, made him lord over the latter, too. If he had beena prince royal, he could not have been better brought up to think well ofhimself, and while his mother was yearning after him at home, he washaving a number of pleasures and consolations administered to him whichmade the separation from Amelia a very easy matter to him. In fact, Master George Osborne had every comfort and luxury that a wealthy andlavish old grandfather thought fit to provide. He had the handsomest ponywhich could be bought, and on this was taught to ride, first at ariding-school, then in state to Regent's Park, and then to Hyde Park withMartin the coachman behind him. 

Though he was scarcely eleven years of age, Master George wore straps, and the most beautiful little boots, like a man. He had gilt spurs and agold-headed whip and a fine pin in his neckerchief, and the neatestlittle kid gloves which could be bought. His mother had given him acouple of neckcloths, and carefully made some little shirts for him; butwhen her Samuel came to see the widow, they were replaced by much finerlinen. He had little jewelled buttons in the lawn shirt fronts. Herhumble presents had been put aside--I believe Miss Osborne had given themto the coachman's boy. 

Amelia tried to think she was pleased at the change. Indeed, she washappy and charmed to see the boy looking so beautiful. She had a littleblack profile of him done for a shilling, which was hung over her bed. One day the boy came galloping down on his accustomed visit to her, andwith great eagerness pulled a red morocco case out of his coat pocket. 

"I bought it with my own money, mamma, " he said. "I thought you'd likeit. "

Amelia opened the case, and giving a little cry of delighted affection, seized him and embraced him a hundred times. It was a miniature ofhimself, very prettily done by an artist who had just executed hisportrait for his grandfather. Georgie, who had plenty of money, bethoughthim to ask the painter how much a copy of the portrait would cost, sayingthat he would pay for it out of his own money, and that he wanted to giveit to his mother. The pleased painter executed it for a small price, andold Osborne himself, when he heard of the incident, growled out hissatisfaction, and gave the boy twice as many sovereigns as he paid forthe miniature. 

At his new home Master George ruled like a lord, and charmed his oldgrandfather by his ways. "Look at him, " the old man would say, nudginghis neighbour with a delighted purple face, "did you ever see such achap? Lord, Lord! he'll be ordering a dressing-case next, and razors toshave with; I'm blessed if he won't. "

The antics of the lad did not, however, delight Mr. Osborne's friends somuch as they pleased the old gentleman. It gave Mr. Justice Coffin nopleasure to hear Georgie cut into the conversation and spoil his stories. Mr. Sergeant Toffy's lady felt no particular gratitude when he tilted aglass of port wine over her yellow satin, and laughed at the disaster;nor was she better pleased, although old Osborne was highly delighted, when Georgie "whopped" her third boy, a young gentleman a year older thanGeorgie, and by chance home for the holidays. George's grandfather gavethe boy a couple of sovereigns for that feat, and promised to reward himfurther for every boy above his own size and age whom he whopped in asimilar manner. It is difficult to say what good the old man saw in thesecombats; he had a vague notion that quarrelling made boys hardy, and thattyranny was a useful accomplishment for them to learn. Flushed withpraise and victory over Master Toffy, George wished naturally to pursuehis conquests further, and one day as he was strutting about in newclothes, near St. Paneras, and a young baker's boy made sarcasticcomments upon his appearance, the youthful patrician pulled off his dandyjacket with great spirit, and giving it in charge to the friend whoaccompanied him (Master Todd, of Great Coram Street, Russell Square, sonof the junior partner of the house of Osborne & Co. ), tried to whop thelittle baker. But the chances of war were unfavourable this time, and thelittle baker whopped Georgie, who came home with a rueful black eye andall his fine shirt frill dabbled with the claret drawn from his ownlittle nose. He told his grandfather that he had been in combat with agiant; and frightened his poor mother at Brampton with long, and by nomeans authentic, accounts of the battle. 

This young Todd, of Coram Street, Russell Square, was Master George'sgreat friend and admirer. They both had a taste for painting theatricalcharacters; for hardbake and raspberry tarts; for sliding and skating inthe Regent's Park and the Serpentine, when the weather permitted; forgoing to the play, whither they were often conducted, by Mr. Osborne'sorders, by Rowson, Master George's appointed body-servant, with whom theysate in great comfort in the pit. 

In the company of this gentleman they visited all the principal theatresof the metropolis--knew the names of all the actors from Drury Lane toSadler's Wells; and performed, indeed, many of the plays to the Toddfamily and their youthful friends, with West's famous characters, ontheir pasteboard theatre. 

A famous tailor from the West End of the town was summoned to ornamentlittle Georgie's person, and was told to spare no expense in so doing. So, Mr. Woolsey, of Conduit Street, gave a loose rein to his imagination, and sent the child home fancy trowsers, fancy waistcoats, and fancyjackets enough to furnish a school of little dandies. George had littlewhite waistcoats for evening parties, and little cut velvet waistcoatsfor evening parties, and little cut velvet waistcoats for dinners, and adear little darling shawl dressing-gown, for all the world like a littleman. He dressed for dinner every day, "like a regular West End swell, " ashis grandfather remarked; one of the domestics was affected to hisspecial service, attended him at his toilette, answered his bell, andbrought him his letters always on a silver tray. 

Georgie, after breakfast, would sit in the arm-chair in the dining-room, and read the Morning Post, just like a grown-up man. Those who rememberedthe Captain, his father, declared Master George was his pa, every inch ofhim. He made the house lively by his activity, his imperiousness, hisscolding, and his good-nature. 

George's education was confided to the Reverend Lawrence Veal, a privatepedagogue who "prepared young noblemen and gentlemen for theUniversities, the Senate, and the learned professions; whose system didnot embrace the degrading corporal severities still practised at theancient places of education, and in whose family the pupils would findthe elegances of refined society and the confidence and affection of ahome, " as his prospectus stated. 

Georgie was only a day pupil; he arrived in the morning, and if it wasfine would ride away in the afternoon, on his pony. The wealth of hisgrandfather was reported in the school to be prodigious. The Reverend Mr. Veal used to compliment Georgie upon it personally, warning him that hewas destined for a high station; that it became him to prepare for thelofty duties to which he would be called later; that obedience in thechild was the best preparation for command in the man; and that hetherefore begged George would not bring toffee into the school and ruinthe health of the other pupils, who had everything they wanted at theelegant and abundant table of Mrs. Veal. 

Whenever Mr. Veal spoke he took care to produce the very finest andlongest words of which the vocabulary gave him the use, and his mannerwas so pompous that little Georgie, who had considerable humour, used tomimic him to his face with great spirit and dexterity, without ever beingdiscovered. Amelia was bewildered by Mr. Veal's phrases, but thought hima prodigy of learning, and made friends with his wife, that she might beasked to Mrs. Veal's receptions, which took place once a month, and wherethe professor welcomed his pupils and their friends to weak tea andscientific conversation. Poor little Amelia never missed one of theseentertainments, and thought them delicious so long as she might haveGeorge sitting by her. 

As for the learning which George imbibed under Mr. Veal, to judge fromthe weekly reports which the lad took home, his progress was remarkable. The name of a score or more of desirable branches of knowledge wereprinted in a table, and the pupil's progress in each was marked by theprofessor. In Greek Georgie was pronounced _Aristos_, in Latin_Optimus_, in French _Très bien_, etc. ; and everybody had prizes foreverything at the end of the year. Even that idle young scapegrace of aMaster Todd, godson of Mr. Osborne, received a little eighteen-pennybook, with _Athene_ engraved on it, and a pompous Latin inscription fromthe professor to his young friend. An example of Georgie's facility inthe art of composition is still treasured by his proud mother, and readsas follows:

_Example_: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer, occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks (Hom. II A 2). The selfishnessof the late Napoleon Bonaparte occasioned innumerable wars in Europe, andcaused him to perish himself in a miserable island--that of St. Helena inthe Atlantic Ocean. 

We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own interestand ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others aswell as our own. 

GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE. 

ATHENE HOUSE, 24 April, 1827. 

While Georgie's days were so full of new interests, Amelia's life wasanything but one of pleasure, for it was passed almost entirely in thesickroom of her mother, with only the gleams of joy when little Georgevisited her, or with an occasional walk to Russell Square. Then came theday when the invalid was buried in the churchyard at Brompton andAmelia's little boy sat by her side at the service in pompous new sablesand quite angry that he could not go to a play upon which he had set hisheart, while his mother's thoughts went back to just such another rainy, dark day, when she had married George Osborne in that very church. 

After the funeral the widow went back to the bereaved old father, whowas stunned and broken by the loss of his wife, his honour, hisfortune, in fact, everything he loved best. There was only Amelia nowto stand by the tottering, heart-broken old man. This she did, to thebest of her ability, all unconscious that on life's ocean a bark wassailing headed towards her with those aboard who were to bring changeand comfort to her life. 

One day when the young gentlemen of Mr. Veal's select school wereassembled in the study, a smart carriage drove up to the door and twogentlemen stepped out. Everybody was interested, from Mr. Veal himself, who hoped he saw the fathers of some future pupils arriving, down toMaster George, glad of any pretext of laying his book down. 

The boy who always opened the door came into the study, and said: "Twogentlemen want to see Master Osborne. " The Professor had had a triflingdispute in the morning with that young gentleman, owing to a differenceabout the introduction of crackers in school-time; but his face resumedits habitual expression of bland courtesy, as he said, "Master Osborne, Igive you full permission to go and see your carriage friends, --to whom Ibeg you to convey the respectful compliments of myself and Mrs. Veal. "

George went into the reception room, and saw two strangers, whom helooked at with his head up, in his usual haughty manner. One was fat, with moustaches, and the other was lean and long in a blue frock coat, with a brown face, and a grizzled head. 

"My God, how like he is!" said the long gentleman, with a start. "Can youguess who we are, George?"

The boy's face flushed up, and his eyes brightened. "I don't know theother, " he said, "but I should think you must be Major Dobbin. "

Indeed, it _was_ Major Dobbin, who had come home on urgent privateaffairs, and who on board the Ramchunder, East Indiaman, had fallen inwith no other than the Widow Osborne's stout brother, Joseph, who hadpassed the last ten years in Bengal. A voyage to Europe was pronouncednecessary for him, and having served his full time in India, and havinglaid by a considerable sum of money, he was free to come home and staywith a good pension, or to return and resume that rank in the service towhich he was entitled. 

Many and many a night as the ship was cutting through the roaring darksea, the moon and stars shining overhead, and the bell singing out thewatch, Mr. Sedley and the Major would sit on the quarter deck of thevessel, talking about home as they smoked. In these conversations, withwonderful perseverance, Major Dobbin would always manage to bring thetalk round to the subject of Amelia. Jos was a little testy about hisfather's misfortunes and application to him for money, but was sootheddown by the Major, who pointed out the elder's ill fortunes in old age. He pointed out how advantageous it would be for Jos Sedley to have ahouse of his own in London, and how his sister Amelia would be the veryperson to preside over it; how elegant, how gentle she was, and of whatrefined good manners. He then hinted how becoming it would be for Jos tosend Georgy to a good school and make a man of him. In a word, thisartful Major made Jos promise to take charge of Amelia and herunprotected child before that pompous civilian made the discovery that hewas binding himself. 

Then came the arrival of the Ramchunder, the going ashore, and theentrance of the two men into the little home where Amelia was keeping herfaithful watch over her feeble father. The excitement and surprise were agreat shock to the old man, while to Amelia they were the greatesthappiness that could have come to her. Of course the first thing she didwas to show Georgie's miniature, and to tell of his greataccomplishments, and then she secured the promise that the Major and herbrother would visit the Reverend Mr. Veal's school at the earliestpossible moment. This promise we have seen redeemed. Major Dobbin andJoseph Sedley, having become acquainted with the details of Amelia'slonely life, and of Georgie's happy one, lost no time in altering suchcircumstances as were within their power to change. Jos Sedley, notwithstanding his pompous selfishness and egoism, had a very tenderheart, and shortly after his first appearance at Brompton, old Sedley andhis daughter were carried away from the humble cottage in which they hadpassed the last ten years of their life to the handsome new home whichJos Sedley had provided for himself and them. 

Good fortune now began to smile upon Amelia. Jos's friends were all fromthree presidencies, and his new house was in the centre of thecomfortable Anglo-Indian district. Owing to Jos Sedley's position numbersof people came to see Mrs. Osborne who before had never noticed her. LadyDobbin and her daughters were delighted at her change of fortune, andcalled upon her. Miss Osborne, herself, came in her grand chariot; Joswas reported to be immensely rich. Old Osborne had no objection thatGeorge should inherit his uncle's property as well as his own. "We willmake a man of the fellow, " he said; "and I will see him in parliamentbefore I die. You may go and see his mother, Miss Osborne, though _I'll_never set eyes on her"; and Miss Osborne came. George was allowed to dineonce or twice a week with his mother, and bullied the servants and hisrelations there, just as he did in Russell Square. 

He was always respectful to Major Dobbin, however, and more modest inhis demeanour when that gentleman was present. He was a clever lad, andafraid of the Major. George could not help admiring his friend'ssimplicity, his good-humour, his various learning quietly imparted, hisgeneral love of truth and justice. He had met no such man as yet in thecourse of his experience, and he had an instinctive liking for agentleman. He hung fondly by his god-father's side; and it was hisdelight to walk in the Parks and hear Dobbin talk. William told Georgeabout his father, about India and Waterloo, about everything buthimself. When George was more than usually pert and conceited, the Majorjoked at him, which Mrs. Osborne thought very cruel. One day taking himto the play, and the boy declining to go into the pit because it wasvulgar, the Major took him to the boxes, left him there, and went downhimself to the pit. He had not been seated there very long before hefelt an arm thrust under his, and a dandy little hand in a kid-glovesqueezing his arm. George had seen the absurdity of his ways, and comedown from the upper region. A tender laugh of benevolence lighted up oldDobbin's face and eyes as he looked at the repentant little prodigal. Heloved the boy very deeply. 

If there was a sincere liking between George and the Major, it must beconfessed that between the boy and his Uncle Joseph no great loveexisted. George had got a way of blowing out his cheeks, and putting hishands in his waistcoat pockets, and saying, "God bless my soul, you don'tsay so, " so exactly after the fashion of old Jos, that it was impossibleto refrain from laughter. The servants would explode at dinner if thelad, asking for something which wasn't at table, put on that countenanceand used that favourite phrase. Even Dobbin would shoot out a sudden pealat the boy's mimicry. If George did not mimic his uncle to his face, itwas only by Dobbin's rebukes and Amelia's terrified entreaties that thelittle scapegrace was induced to desist. And Joseph, having a dimconsciousness that the lad thought him an ass, and was inclined to turnhim into ridicule, used to be of course doubly pompous and dignified inthe presence of Master George. When it was announced that the younggentleman was expected to dine with his mother, Mr. Jos commonly foundthat he had an engagement at the Club, and perhaps nobody was muchgrieved at his absence. 

Before long Amelia had a visiting-book, and was driving about regularlyin a carriage, from which a buttony boy sprang from the box with Amelia'sand Jos's visiting cards. At stated hours Emmy and the carriage went tothe Club, and took Jos for an airing; or, putting old Sedley into thevehicle, she drove the old man round the Regent's Park. We are not longin growing used to changes in life. Her lady's-maid and the chariot, hervisiting book, and the buttony page became soon as familiar to Amelia asthe humble routine of Brompton. She accommodated herself to one as to theother, and entertained Jos's friends with the same unselfish charm withwhich she cared for and amused old John Sedley. 

Then came the day when that poor old man closed his eyes on the familiarscenes of earth, and Major Dobbin, Jos, and George followed hisremains-to the grave in a black cloth coach. "You see, " said old Osborneto George, when the burial was over, "what comes of merit and industryand good speculation, and that. Look at me and my bank account. Look atyour poor Grandfather Sedley, and his failure. And yet he was a betterman than I was, this day twenty years--a better man, I should say, by tenthousand pounds. " And this worldly wisdom little George received inprofound silence, taking it for what it was worth. 

About this time old Osborne conceived much admiration for Major Dobbin, which he had acquired from the world's opinion of that gentleman. AlsoMajor Dobbin's name appeared in the lists of one or two great parties ofthe nobility, which circumstance had a prodigious effect upon the oldaristocrat of Russell Square. Also the Major's position as guardian toGeorge, whose possession had been ceded to his grandfather, rendered somemeetings between the two gentleman inevitable, and it was in one of thesethat old Osborne, from a chance hint supplied by the blushing Major, discovered that a part of the fund upon which the poor widow and herchild had subsisted during their time of want, had been supplied out ofWilliam Dobbin's own pocket. This information gave old Osborne pain, butincreased his admiration for the Major, who had been such a loyal friendto his son's wife. From that time it was evident that old Osborne'sopinion was softening, and soon Jos and the Major were asked to dinner atRussell Square, --to a dinner the most splendid that perhaps ever Mr. Osborne gave; every inch of the family plate was exhibited and the bestcompany was asked. More than once old Osborne asked Major Dobbin aboutMrs. George Osborne, --a theme on which the Major could be very eloquent. 

"You don't know what she endured, sir, " said honest Dobbin; "and I hopeand trust you will be reconciled to her. If she took your son away fromyou, she gave hers to you; and however much you loved your George, dependon it, she loved hers ten times more. "

"You are a good fellow, sir!" was all Mr. Osborne said. But it wasevident in later events that the conversation had had its effect upon theold man. He sent for his lawyers, and made some changes in his will, which was well, for one day shortly after that act he died suddenly. 

When his will was read it was found that half the property was left toGeorge. Also an annuity of five hundred pounds was left to his mother, "the widow of my beloved son, George Osborne, " who was to resume theguardianship of the boy. 

Major William Dobbin was appointed executor, "and as out of his kindnessand bounty he maintained my grandson and my son's widow with his ownprivate funds when they were otherwise without means of support" (thetestator went on to say), "I hereby thank him heartily, and beseech himto accept such a sum as may be sufficient to purchase his commission as aLieutenant Colonel, or to be disposed of in any way he may think fit. "When Amelia heard that her father-in-law was reconciled to her, her heartmelted, and she was grateful for the fortune left to her. But when sheheard how George was restored to her, and that it had been William'sbounty that supported her in poverty, that it was William who hadreconciled old Osborne to her, then her gratitude and joy knew no bounds. 

When the nature of Mr. Osborne's will became known to the world, oncemore Mrs. George Osborne rose in the estimation of the people forming hercircle of acquaintance; even Jos himself paid her and her rich littleboy, his nephew, the greatest respect, and began to show her much moreattention than formerly. 

As George's guardian, Amelia begged Miss Osborne to live in the RussellSquare house, but Miss Osborne did not choose to do so. And Amelia alsodeclined to occupy the gloomy old mansion. But one day, clad in deepsables, she went with George to visit the deserted house which she hadnot entered since she was a girl. They went into the great blank rooms, the walls of which bore the marks where pictures and mirrors had hung. Then they went up the great stone staircase into the upper rooms, intothat where grandpapa died, as Georgie said in a whisper, and then higherstill into George's own room. The boy was still clinging by her side, butshe thought of another besides him. She knew that it had been hisfather's room before it was his. 

"Look here, mother, " said George, standing by the window, "here'sG. O. Scratched on the glass with a diamond; I never saw it before. Inever did it. "

"It was your father's room long before you were born, George, " she said, and she blushed as she kissed the boy. 

She was very silent as they drove back to Richmond, where they hadtaken a temporary house, but after that time practical matters occupiedher mind. There were many directions to be given and much business totransact, and Amelia immediately found herself in the whirl of quite anew life, and experienced the extreme joy of having George continuallywith her, as he was at that time removed from Mr. Veal's on anunlimited holiday. 

George's aunt, Mrs. Bullock, who had before her marriage been MissOsborne, thought it wise now to become reconciled with Amelia and herboy. Consequently one day her chariot drove up to Amelia's house, andthe Bullock family made an irruption into the garden, where Ameliawas reading. 

Jos was in an arbour, placidly dipping strawberries into wine, and theMajor was giving a back to George, who chose to jump over him. He wentover his head, and bounded into the little group of Bullocks, withimmense black bows on their hats, and huge black sashes, accompanyingtheir mourning mamma. 

"He is just the age for Rosa, " the fond parent thought, and glancedtowards that dear child, a little miss of seven years. "Rosa, go and kissyour dear cousin, " added Mrs. Bullock. "Don't you know me, George? I amyour aunt. "

"I know you well enough, " George said; "but I don't like kissing, please, " and he retreated from the obedient caresses of his cousin. 

"Take me to your dear mamma, you droll child, " Mrs. Bullock said; andthose ladies met, after an absence of more than fifteen years. DuringEmmy's poverty Mrs. Bullock had never thought about coming to see her;but now that she was decently prosperous in the world, her sister-in-lawcame to her as a matter of course. 

So did many others. In fact, before the period of grief for Mr. Osborne'sdeath had subsided, Emmy, had she wished, could have become a leader infashionable society. But that was not her desire: worn out with the longperiod of poverty, care, and separation from George, her one wish was achange of scene and thought. 

Because of this wish, some time later, on a fine morning, when theBatavier steamboat was about to leave its dock, we see among thecarriages being taken on, a very neat, handsome travelling carriage, fromwhich a courier, Kirsch by name, got out and informed inquirers that thecarriage belonged to an enormously rich Nabob from Calcutta and Jamaica, with whom he was engaged to travel. At this moment a young gentleman whohad been warned off the bridge between the paddle-boxes, and who haddropped thence onto the roof of Lord Methusala's carriage, from which hemade his way over other carriages until he had clambered onto his own, descended thence and through the window into the body of the carriage tothe applause of the couriers looking on. 

"_Nous allons avoir une belle traversée_, Monsieur George, " said Kirschwith a grin, as he lifted his gold laced cap. 

"Bother your French!" said the young gentleman. 

"Where's the biscuits, ay?" Whereupon Kirsch answered him in suchEnglish as he could command and produced the desired repast. 

The imperious young gentleman who gobbled the biscuits (and indeed it wastime to refresh himself, for he had breakfasted at Richmond full threehours before) was our young friend George Osborne. Uncle Jos and hismamma were on the quarter-deck with Major Dobbin, and the four were aboutto make a summer tour. Amelia wore a straw bonnet with black ribbons, andotherwise dressed in mourning, but the little bustle and holiday of thejourney pleased and excited her, and from that day throughout the entirejourney she continued to be very happy and pleased. Wherever they stoppedDobbin used to carry about for her her stool and sketch book, and admiredher drawings as they never had been admired before. She sat upon steamerdecks and drew crags and castles, or she mounted upon donkeys anddescended to ancient robber towers, attended by her two escorts, Georgieand Dobbin. Dobbin was interpreter for the party, having a good militaryknowledge of the German language, and he and the delighted George, whowas having a wonderful trip, fought over again the campaigns of the Rhineand the Palatinate. In the course of a few weeks of constant conversationwith Herr Kirsch on the box of the carriage, George made great advance inthe knowledge of High Dutch, and could talk to hotel waiters andpostilions in a way that charmed his mother and amused his guardian. 

At the little ducal town of Pumpernickel our party settled down for aprotracted stay. There each one of them found something especiallypleasing or interesting them, and there it was that they encountered anacquaintance of other days, --no other than Mrs. Rawdon Crawley; andbecause of Becky's experiences since she had quitted her husband, herchild, and the little house in Curzon Street, London, of which he knewthe details, Major Dobbin was anything but pleased at the meeting. 

But Becky told Amelia a pathetic little tale of misery, neglect, andestrangement from those she loved, and tenderhearted Amelia, who quiveredwith indignation at the recital, at once invited Becky to join theirparty. To this Major Dobbin made positive objections, but Amelia remainedfirm in her resolve to shelter the friend of her school-days, the motherwho had been cruelly taken away from her boy by a misjudgingsister-in-law. This decision brought about a crisis in Amelia's affairs:Major Dobbin, who had been so devotedly attached to Amelia for years, also remained firm, and insisted not only that Amelia have no more to dowith Mrs. Crawley, but that if she did, he would leave the party. Ameliawas firm and loyal, and honest Dobbin made preparations for hisdeparture. 

When the coach that was to carry old Dob away drew up before the door, Georgie gave an exclamation of surprise. 

"Hello!" said he, "there's Dob's trap! There's Francis coming out withthe portmanteau, and the postilion. Look at his boots and yellowjacket--why--they are putting the horses to Dob's carriage. Is he goinganywhere?"

"Yes, " said Amelia, "he is going on a journey. "

"Going on a journey! And when is he coming back?"

"He is--not coming back, " answered Amelia. 

"Not coming back!" cried out Georgie, jumping up. 

"Stay here, " roared out Jos. 

"Stay, Georgie, " said his mother, with a very sad face. 

The boy stopped, kicked about the room, jumped up and down from thewindow seat, and finally, when the Major's luggage had been carried out, gave way to his feelings again. "By Jove, I _will_ go!" screamed outGeorge, and rushed downstairs and flung across the street in a minute. 

The yellow postilion was cracking his whip gently. William had got intothe carriage, George bounded in after him, and flung his arms around theMajor's neck, asking him multiplied questions. William kissed Georgie, spoke gently and sadly to him, and the boy got out, doubling his fistsinto his eyes. The yellow postilion cracked his whip again, up sprangFrancis to the box, and away Dobbin was carried, never looking up as hepassed under Amelia's window; and Georgie, left alone in the street, burst out crying in the face of all the crowd and continued hislamentations far into the night, when Amelia's maid, who heard himhowling, brought him some preserved apricots to console him. 

Thus honest Dobbin passed out of the life of Amelia and her boy, butnot forever. Gentle Amelia was soon disillusioned in regard to the oldschoolmate whom she had taken under her care, and found that in all theworld there was no one who meant so much to her as faithful Dobbin. Onemorning she wrote and despatched a note, the inscription of which noone saw; but on account of which she looked very much flushed andagitated when Georgie met her coming from the Post; and she kissed himand hung over him a great deal that night. Two mornings later George, walking on the dyke with his mother, saw by the aid of his telescope anEnglish steamer near the pier. George took the glass again and watchedthe vessel. 

"How she does pitch! There goes a wave slap over her bows. There's a manlying down, and a--chap--in a--cloak with a--Hurrah! It's _Dob_, byjingo!" He clapped to the telescope and flung his arms round his mother, then ran swiftly off; and Amelia was left to make her peace alone withthe faithful Major, who had returned at her request. 

Some days later Becky Sharp felt it wise to leave for Bruges, and in thelittle church at Ostend there was a wedding, at which the only witnesseswere Georgie and his Uncle Jos. Amelia Osborne had decided to accept theMajor's protection for life, to the never-ending satisfaction of George, to whom the Major had always been comrade and father. 

Immediately after his marriage Colonel Dobbin quitted the service andrented a pretty little country place in Hampshire, not far from Queen'sCrawley, where Sir Pitt and his family constantly resided now, and whereRawdon Crawley was regarded as their son. 

Lady Jane and Mrs. Dobbin became great friends, and there was a perpetualcrossing of pony chaises between the two places. Lady Jane was godmotherto Mrs. Dobbin's little girl, who bore her name, and the two lads, GeorgeOsborne and Rawdon Crawley, who had met so many years before as childrenwhen little Rawdon invited George to take a ride on his pony, and whoselives had been filled with such different experiences since that time, now became close friends. They were both entered at the same college atCambridge, hunted and shot together in the vacations, confided in eachother; and when we last see them, fast becoming young men, they are deepin a quarrel about Lady Jane's daughter, with whom they were both, ofcourse, in love. 

No further proof of approaching age is needed than a quarrel over a younglady, and the lads, George and Rawdon, now give place forever to men. Though the circumstances of their lives had been unlike, though Georgehad had all the love that a devoted mother could give, and all theluxury which money could supply: and Rawdon had been without a mother'sdevotion; without the surroundings which had made George's lifeluxurious, --on the threshold of manhood we find them on an equal footing, entering life's arena, strong of limb, glad of heart, eager for whatmanhood was to bring them. 

CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME

[Illustration: CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME. ]

When one is about to write the biography of a certain person, it seemsbut fair to give as its background such facts concerning the hero'santecedents as place the details of his life in their proper setting. Andso, having the honour to be the juvenile biographer of Mr. Clive Newcome, I deem it wise to preface the story of his life with a brief account ofevents and persons antecedent to his birth. 

Thomas Newcome, Clive's grandfather, had been a weaver in his nativevillage, and brought the very best character for honesty, thrift, andingenuity with him to London, where he was taken into the house of HobsonBrothers, cloth-manufacturers; afterwards Hobson & Newcome. When ThomasNewcome had been some time in London, he quitted the house of Hobson, tobegin business for himself. And no sooner did his business prosper thanhe married a pretty girl from his native village. What seemed animprudent match, as his wife had no worldly goods to bring him, turnedout a very lucky one for Newcome. The whole countryside was pleased tothink of the marriage of the prosperous London tradesman with thepenniless girl whom he had loved in the days of his own poverty; thegreat country clothiers, who knew his prudence and honesty, gave himmuch of their business, and Susan Newcome would have been the wife of arich man had she not died a year after her marriage, at the birth of herson, Thomas. 

Newcome had a nurse for the child, and a cottage at Clapham, hard by Mr. Hobson's house, and being held in good esteem by his former employers, was sometimes invited by them to tea. When his wife died, Miss Hobson, who since her father's death had become a partner in the firm, met Mr. Newcome with his little boy as she was coming out of meeting one Sunday, and the child looked so pretty, and Mr. Newcome so personable, that MissHobson invited him and little Tommy into the grounds; let the child friskabout in the hay on the lawn, and at the end of the visit gave him alarge piece of pound-cake, a quantity of the finest hot-house grapes, anda tract in one syllable. Tommy was ill the next day; but on the nextSunday his father was at meeting, and not very long after that MissHobson became Mrs. Newcome. 

After his father's second marriage, Tommy and Sarah, his nurse, who wasalso a cousin of Mr. Newcome's first wife, were transported from thecottage, where they had lived in great comfort, to the palace hard by, surrounded by lawns and gardens, graperies, aviaries, luxuries of allkinds. This paradise was separated from the outer world by a, thick hedgeof tall trees and an ivy-covered porter's gate, through which they whotravelled to London on the top of the Clapham coach could only get aglimpse of the bliss within. It was a serious paradise. As you entered atthe gate, gravity fell on you; and decorum wrapped you in a garment ofstarch. The butcher boy who galloped his horse and cart madly about theadjoining lanes, on passing that lodge fell into an undertaker's pace, and delivered his joints and sweetbreads silently at the servant'sentrance. The rooks in the elms cawed sermons at morning and evening; thepeacocks walked demurely on the terraces; the guinea fowls looked moreQuaker-like than those birds usually do. The lodge-keeper was serious, and a clerk at the neighbouring chapel. The pastor, who entered at thatgate and greeted his comely wife and children, fed the little lambkinswith tracts. The head gardener was a Scotch Calvinist, after thestrictest order. On a Sunday the household marched away to sit under hisor her favourite minister, the only man who went to church being ThomasNewcome, with Tommy, his little son. Tommy was taught hymns suited to histender age, pointing out the inevitable fate of wicked children andgiving him a description of the punishment of little sinners, which poemshe repeated to his step-mother after dinner, before a great shiningmahogany table, covered with grapes, pineapples, plum cake, port wine, and madeira, and surrounded by stout men in black, with baggy whiteneckcloths, who took the little man between their knees and questionedhim as to his right understanding of the place whither naughty boys werebound. They patted his head if he said well, or rebuked him if he wasbold, as he often was. 

Then came the birth of Mrs. Newcome's twin boys, Hobson and Bryan, andnow there was no reason why young Newcome, their step-brother, should notgo to school, and to Grey Friars Thomas Newcome was accordingly sent, exchanging--O ye gods! with what delight--the splendour of Clapham forthe rough, plentiful fare of the new place. The pleasures of school-lifewere such to him that he did not care to go home for a holiday; for byplaying tricks and breaking windows, by taking the gardener's peaches andthe housekeeper's jam, by upsetting his two little brothers in a go-cart(of which injury the Baronet's nose bore marks to his dying day), bygoing to sleep during the sermons, and treating reverend gentlemen withlevity, he drew down on himself the merited anger of his step-mother; andmany punishments. To please Mrs. Newcome, his father whipped Tommy forupsetting his little brothers in the go-cart; but, upon being pressed torepeat the whipping for some other prank, Mr. Newcome refused, sayingthat the boy got flogging enough at school, with which opinion MasterTommy fully agreed. His step-mother, however, determined to make theyoung culprit smart for his offences, and one day, when Mr. Newcome wasabsent, and Tommy refractory as usual, summoned the butler and footman toflog the young criminal. But he dashed so furiously against the butler'sshins as to cause that menial to limp and suffer for many days after;and, seizing the decanter, he threatened to discharge it at Mrs. Newcome's head before he would submit to the punishment she desiredadministered. When Mr. Newcome returned, he was indignant at his wife'streatment of Tommy, and said so, to her great displeasure. This affair, indeed, almost caused a break in their relations, and friends and clergywere obliged to interfere to allay the domestic quarrel. At length Mrs. Newcome, who was not unkind, and could be brought to own that she wassometimes in fault, was induced to submit to the decrees of her husband, whom she had vowed to love and honour. When Tommy fell ill of scarletfever she nursed him through his illness, and uttered no reproach to herhusband when the twins took the disease. And even though Tommy in hisdelirium vowed that he would put on his clothes and run away to his oldnurse Sarah, Mrs. Newcome's kindness to him never faltered. What the boythreatened in his delirium, a year later he actually achieved. He ranaway from home, and appeared one morning, gaunt and hungry, at Sarah'scottage two hundred miles away from Clapham. She housed the poor prodigalwith many tears and kisses, and put him to bed and to sleep; from whichslumber he was aroused by the appearance of his father, whose instinct, backed by Mrs. Newcome's intelligence, had made him at once aware whitherthe young runaway had fled. Seeing a horsewhip in his parent's hand, Tommy, scared out of a sweet sleep and a delightful dream of cricket, knew his fate; and getting out of bed, received his punishment without aword. Very likely the father suffered more than the child; for, when thepunishment was over, the little man yet quivering with the pain, held outhis little bleeding hand, and said, "I can--I can take it from you, sir, "saying which his face flushed, and his eyes filled, whereupon the fatherburst into a passion of tears, and embraced the boy, and kissed him, besought him to be rebellious no more, flung the whip away from him, andswore, come what would, he would never strike him again. The quarrel wasthe means of a great and happy reconciliation. But the truce was only atemporary one. War very soon broke out again between the impetuous ladand his rigid, domineering step-mother. It was not that he was very bad, nor she so very stern, but the two could not agree. The boy sulked andwas miserable at home, and, after a number of more serious escapades thanhe had before indulged in, he was sent to a tutor for militaryinstruction, where he was prepared for the army and received a fairlygood professional education. He cultivated mathematics and fortification, and made rapid progress in his study of the French language. But againdid our poor Tommy get into trouble, and serious trouble indeed thistime, for it involved his French master's pretty young daughter as wellas himself. Frantic with wrath and despair at the unfortunate climax ofevents, young Newcome embarked for India, and quitted the parents whom hewas never more to see. His name was no more mentioned at Clapham, but hewrote constantly to his father, who sent Tom liberal private remittancesto India, and was in turn made acquainted with the fact of his son'smarriage, and later received news of the birth of his grandson, Clive. 

Old Thomas Newcome would have liked to leave all his private fortune tohis son Thomas, for the twins were only too well provided for, but hedared not, for fear of his wife, and he died, and poor Tom was onlysecretly forgiven. 

So much for the history of Clive Newcome's father and grandfather. Havingrelated it in full detail, we can now proceed to the narrative of Clive'slife, he being the hero of this tale. 

From the day of his birth until he was some seven years old, Clive'sEnglish relatives knew nothing about him. Then, Colonel Newcome's wifehaving died, and having kept the boy with him as long as the climatewould allow, Thomas Newcome, now Lieutenant-Colonel, decided that it waswise to send Clive to England, to entrust him to the boy's maternal aunt, Miss Honeyman, who was living at Brighton, that Clive might have thesuperior advantages of school days in England. 

Let us glance at a few extracts from letters received by Colonel Newcomeafter his boy had reached England. The aunt to whose care he wasentrusted wrote as follows:

 * * * * *

With the most heartfelt joy, my dear Major, I take up my pen toannounce to you the happy arrival of the Ramchunder and the dearestand handsomest little boy who, I am sure, ever came from India. LittleClive is in perfect health. He speaks English wonderfully well. He criedwhen he parted from Mr. Sneid, the supercargo, who most kindly broughthim from Southhampton in a postchaise, but these tears in childhood areof very brief duration!. .. 

You may be sure that the most liberal sum which you have placed tomy credit with the Messrs. Hobson & Co. Shall be faithfully expendedon my dear little charge. Of course, unless Mrs. Newcome, --who canscarcely be called his grandmamma, I suppose, --writes to invite dearClive to Clapham, I shall not think of sending him there. My brother, who thanks you for your continuous bounty, will write next month, andreport progress as to his dear pupil. Clive will add a postscript of hisown, and I am, my dear Major, Your grateful and affectionate, MARTHA HONEYMAN. 

 * * * * *

In a round hand and on lines ruled with pencil:

 * * * * *

_Dearest Papa_ I am very well I hope you are Very Well. Mr. Sneedbrought me in a postchaise I like Mr. Sneed very much. I like AuntMartha I like Hannah. There are no ships here I am your affectionateson CLIVE NEWCOME. 

 * * * * *

There was also a note from Colonel Newcome's stepbrother, Bryan, as follows:

 * * * * *

_My Dear Thomas_: Mr. Sneid, supercargo of the Ramchunder, EastIndiaman, handed over to us yesterday your letter, and, to-day, I havepurchased three thousand three hundred and twenty-three pounds 6and 8, three per cent Consols, in our joint names (H. And B. Newcome), held for your little boy. Mr. S. Gives a favourable account ofthe little man, and left him in perfect health two days since, at thehouse of his aunt, Miss Honeyman. We have placed £200 to that lady'scredit, at your desire. I dare say my mother will ask your little boy tothe Hermitage; and when we have a house of our own I am sure Annand I shall be very happy to see him. 

Yours affectionately, B. NEWCOME. 

 * * * * *

And another from Miss Honeyman's brother, containing the following:

 * * * * *

MAJOR NEWCOME:

_My Dear Colonel_: . .. Clive is everything that a father's anduncle's, a pastor's, a teacher's, affections could desire. He is not apremature genius; he is not, I frankly own, more advanced in hisclassical and mathematical studies than some children even younger thanhimself; but he has acquired the rudiments of health; he has laid in astore of honesty and good-humour which are not less likely to advance himin life than mere science and language . .. Etc. , etc. , Your affectionate brother-in-law, CHARLES HONEYMAN. 

 * * * * *

Another letter from Miss Honeyman herself said:

 * * * * *

_My Dear Colonel_: . .. As my dearest little Clive was too smallfor a great school, I thought he could not do better than stay with hisold aunt and have his uncle Charles for a tutor, who is one of the finestscholars in the world. Of late he has been too weak to take a curacy, so I thought he could not do better than become Clive's tutor, and agreedto pay him out of your handsome donation of £250 for Clive, a sum ofone hundred pounds per year. But I find that Charles is too kind tobe a schoolmaster, and Master Clive laughs at him. It was only theother day after his return from his grandmamma's that I found a pictureof Mrs. Newcome and Charles, too, and of both their spectacles, quitelike. He has done me and Hannah, too. Mr. Speck, the artist, says heis a wonder at drawing. 

Our little Clive has been to London on a visit to his uncles and toClapham, to pay his duty to his step-grandmother, the wealthy Mrs. Newcome. She was very gracious to him, and presented him with a fivepound note, a copy of Kirk White's poems and a work called LittleHenry and his Bearer, relating to India, and the excellent catechism ofour Church. Clive is full of humour, and I enclose you a rude scraprepresenting the Bishopess of Clapham, as Mrs. Newcome is called. 

Instead then of allowing Clive to be with Charles in London nextmonth I shall send him to Doctor Timpany's school, Marine Parade, ofwhich I hear the best account; but I hope you will think of soon sendinghim to a great school. My father always said it was the best place forboys, and I have a brother to whom my poor mother spared the rod, andwho I fear has turned out but a spoiled child. 

I am, dear Colonel, your most faithful servant, MARTHA HONEYMAN. 

 * * * * *

Besides the news gleaned from these letters we gather the main factsconcerning little Clive's departure from the Colonel's side. He had keptthe child with him until he felt sure that the change would be ofadvantage to the pretty boy, then had parted from him with bitter pangsof heart, and thought constantly of him with longing and affection. Withthe boy, it was different. Half an hour after his father had left him andin grief and loneliness was rowing back to shore, Clive was at play witha dozen other children on the sunny deck of the ship. When two bells rangfor their dinner, they were all hurrying to the table, busy over theirmeal, and forgetful of all but present happiness. 

But with that fidelity which was an instinct of his nature, ColonelNewcome thought ever of his absent child and longed after him. He neverforsook the native servants who had had charge of Clive, but endowed themwith money sufficient to make all their future lives comfortable. Nofriends went to Europe, nor ship departed, but Newcome sent presents tothe boy and costly tokens of his love and thanks to all who were kind tohis son. His aim was to save money for the youngster, but he was of anature so generous that he spent five rupees where another would savethem. However, he managed to lay by considerable out of his liberalallowances, and to find himself and Clive growing richer every year. 

"When Clive has had five or six years at school"--that was hisscheme--"he will be a fine scholar, and have at least as much classicallearning as a gentleman in the world need possess. Then I will go toEngland, and we will pass three or four years together, in which he willlearn to be intimate with me, and, I hope, to like me. I shall be hispupil for Latin and Greek, and try and make up for lost time. I knowthere is nothing like a knowledge of the classics to give a man goodbreeding. I shall be able to help him with my knowledge of the world, and to keep him out of the way of sharpers and a pack of rogues whocommonly infest young men. And we will travel together, first throughEngland, Scotland, and Ireland, for every man should know his owncountry, and then we will make the grand tour. Then by the time he iseighteen he will be able to choose his profession. He can go into thearmy, or, if he prefers, the church, or the law--they are open to him;and when he goes to the university, by which time I shall be, in allprobability, a major-general, I can come back to India for a few years, and return by the time he has a wife and a home for his old father; or, if I die, I shall have done the best for him, and my boy will be leftwith the best education, a tolerable small fortune, and the blessing ofhis old father. "

Such were the plans of the kind schemer. How fondly he dwelt on them, howaffectionately he wrote of them to his boy! How he read books of travelsand looked over the maps of Europe! and said, "Rome, sir, glorious Rome;it won't be very long, major, before my boy and I see the Colosseum, andkiss the Pope's toe. We shall go up the Rhine to Switzerland, and overthe Simplon, the work of the great Napoleon. By jove, sir, think of theTurks before Vienna, and Sobieski clearing eighty thousand of 'em off theface of the earth! How my boy will rejoice in the picture galleriesthere, and in Prince Eugene's prints! The boy's talent for drawing iswonderful, sir, wonderful. He sent me a picture of our old school. Thevery actual thing, sir; the cloisters, the school, the head gown boygoing in with the rods, and the doctor himself. It would make you die oflaughing!"

He regaled the ladies of the regiment with dive's letters, and those ofMiss Honeyman, which contained an account of the boy. He even bored someof his hearers with this prattle; and sporting young men would give ortake odds that the Colonel would mention Clive's name, once before fiveminutes, three times in ten minutes, twenty-five times in the course ofdinner, and so on. But they who laughed at the Colonel laughed verykindly; and everybody who knew him, loved him; everybody that is, wholoved modesty, generosity and honour. 

As to Clive himself, by this time he was thoroughly enjoying his new lifein England. After remaining for a time at Doctor Timpany's school, wherehe was first placed by his aunt, Miss Honeyman, he was speedily removedto that classical institution in which Colonel Newcome had been a studentin earlier days. My acquaintance with young Clive was at this school, Grey Friars, where our acquaintance was brief and casual. He had theadvantage of being six years my junior, and such a difference of agebetween lads at a public school puts intimacy out of the question, eventhough we knew each other at home, as our school phrase was, and ourfamilies were somewhat acquainted. When Newcome's uncle, the ReverendCharles Honeyman, brought Newcome to the Grey Friars School, herecommended him to my superintendence and protection, and told me thathis young nephew's father, Colonel Thomas Newcome, C. B. , was a mostgallant and distinguished officer in the Bengal establishment of thehonourable East India Company; and that his uncles, the Colonel'shalf-brothers, were the eminent bankers, heads of the firm of HobsonBrothers & Newcome, Hobson Newcome, Esquire, Brianstone Square, andMarblehead, Sussex, and Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome, and Park Lane, "whom to name, " says Mr. Honeyman, with the fluent eloquence with whichhe decorated the commonest circumstances of life, "is to designate two ofthe merchant princes of the wealthiest city the world has ever known; andone, if not two, of the leaders of that aristocracy which rallies roundthe throne of the most elegant and refined of European sovereigns. "

I promised Mr. Honeyman to do what I could for the boy; and he proceededto take leave of his little nephew in my presence in terms equallyeloquent, pulling out a long and very slender green purse, from which heextracted the sum of two and sixpence, which he presented to the child, who received the money with rather a queer twinkle in his blue eyes. 

After that day's school I met my little protege in the neighbourhood ofthe pastry cook's, regaling himself with raspberry tarts. "You must notspend all the money, sir, which your uncle gave you, " said I, "in tartsand ginger-beer. "

The urchin rubbed the raspberry jam off his mouth, and said, "It don'tmatter, sir, for I've got lots more. "

"How much?" says the Grand Inquisitor: for the formula of interrogationused to be, when a new boy came to the school, "What's your name? Who'syour father? and how much money have you got?"

The little fellow pulled such a handful of sovereigns out of his pocketas might have made the tallest scholar feel a pang of envy. "UncleHobson, " says he, "gave me two; Aunt Hobson gave me one--no, Aunt Hobsongave me thirty shillings; Uncle Newcome gave me three pound; and Aunt Anngave me one pound five; and Aunt Honeyman sent me ten shillings in aletter. And Ethel wanted to give me a pound, only I wouldn't have it, youknow; because Ethel's younger than me, and I have plenty. "

"And who is Ethel?" I ask, smiling at the artless youth's confessions. 

"Ethel is my cousin, " replied little Newcome; "Aunt Ann's daughter. There's Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Ann wanted the baby to be calledBoadicea, only uncle wouldn't; and there's Barnes and Egbert and littleAlfred, only he don't count; he's quite a baby, you know. Egbert and mewas at school at Timpany's; he's going to Eton next half. He's older thanme, but I can lick him. "

"And how old is Egbert?" asks the smiling senior. 

"Egbert's ten, and I'm nine, and Ethel's seven, " replied the littlechubby-faced hero, digging his hands deep into his trousers, and jinglingall the sovereigns there. I advised him to let me be his banker; and, keeping one out of his many gold pieces, he handed over the others, onwhich he drew with great liberality till his whole stock was expended. The school hours of the upper and under boys were different at that time;the little fellows coming out of their hall half an hour before the Fifthand Sixth Forms; and many a time I used to find my little blue-jacket inwaiting, with his honest square face, and white hair, and bright blueeyes, and I knew that he was come to draw on his bank. Ere long one ofthe pretty blue eyes was shut up, and a fine black one substituted in itsplace. He had been engaged, it appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with agiant of his own form whom he had worsted in the combat. "Didn't I pitchinto him, that's all?" says he in the elation of victory; and, when Iasked whence the quarrel arose, he stoutly informed me that "Wolf Minor, his opponent, had been bullying a little boy, and that he, the giganticNewcome, wouldn't stand it. "

So, being called away from the school, I said "Farewell and God blessyou, " to the brave little man, who remained a while at the Grey Friars, where his career and troubles had only just begun, and lost sight of himfor several years. Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young manoccupying chambers in the Temple. 

Meanwhile the years of Clive's absence had slowly worn away for ColonelNewcome, and at last the happy time came which he had been longing morepassionately than any prisoner for liberty, or schoolboy for holiday. TheColonel had taken leave of his regiment. He had travelled to Calcutta;and the Commander-in-Chief announced that in giving to Lieutenant-ColonelThomas Newcome, of the Bengal Cavalry, leave for the first time, after noless than thirty-four years' absence from home, he could not refrain fromexpressing his sense of the great services of this most distinguishedofficer, who had left his regiment in a state of the highest disciplineand efficiency. 

This kind Colonel had also to take leave of a score, at least, of adoptedchildren to whom he chose to stand in the light of a father. He wasforever whirling away in post-chaises to this school and that, to seeJack Brown's boys, of the Cavalry; or Mrs. Smith's girls, of the CivilService; or poor Tom Hick's orphan, who had nobody to look after him nowthat the cholera had carried off Tom and his wife, too. On board the shipin which he returned from Calcutta were a dozen of little children, someof whom he actually escorted to their friends before he visited his own, though his heart was longing for his boy at Grey Friars. The children atthe schools seen, and largely rewarded out of his bounty (his loose whitetrousers had great pockets, always heavy with gold and silver, which hejingled when he was not pulling his moustaches, and to see the way inwhich he tipped children made one almost long to be a boy again) and whenhe had visited Miss Pinkerton's establishment, or Doctor Ramshorn'sadjoining academy at Chiswick, and seen little Tom Davis or little FannyHolmes, the honest fellow would come home and write off straightway along letter to Tom's or Fanny's parents, far away in the country, whosehearts he made happy by his accounts of their children, as he haddelighted the children themselves by his affection and bounty. All theapple and orange-women (especially such as had babies as well aslollipops at their stalls), all the street-sweepers on the road betweenNerot's and the Oriental, knew him, and were his pensioners. His brothersin Threadneedle Street cast up their eyes at the cheques which he drew. 

The Colonel had written to his brothers from Portsmouth, announcing hisarrival, and three words to Clive, conveying the same intelligence. Theletter was served to the boy along with one bowl of tea and one butteredroll, of eighty such which were distributed to fourscore other boys, boarders of the same house with our young friend. How the lad's face musthave flushed and his eyes brightened when he read the news! When themaster of the house, the Reverend Mister Popkinson, came into thelodging-room, with a good-natured face, and said, "Newcome, you'rewanted, " he knew who had come. He did not heed that notorious bruiser, old Hodge, who roared out, "Confound you, Newcome: I'll give it you forupsetting your tea over my new trousers. " He ran to the room where thestranger was waiting for him. We will shut the door, if you please, uponthat scene. 

If Clive had not been as fine and handsome a young lad as any in thatschool or country, no doubt his fond father would have been just as wellpleased and endowed him with a hundred fanciful graces; but, in truth, inlooks and manners he was everything which his parent could desire. He wasthe picture of health, strength, activity, and good-humour. He had a goodforehead shaded with a quantity of waving light hair; a complexion whichladies might envy; a mouth which seemed accustomed to laughing; and apair of blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and frank kindness. Nowonder the pleased father could not refrain from looking at him. 

The bell rang for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, arrayed in cap andgown, came in to shake Colonel Newcome by the hand, and to say hesupposes it was to be a holiday for Newcome that day. He said not a wordabout Clive's scrape of the day before, and that awful row in thebedrooms, where the lad and three others were discovered making a supperoff a pork pie and two bottles of prime old port from the Red Cowpublic-house in Grey Friars Lane. 

When the bell was done ringing, and all these busy little bees swarmedinto their hive, there was a solitude in the place. The Colonel and hisson walked the play-ground together, that gravelly flat, as destitute ofherbage as the Arabian desert, but, nevertheless, in the language of theplace, called the green. They walked the green, and they paced thecloisters, and Clive showed his father his own name of Thomas Newcomecarved upon one of the arches forty years ago. As they talked, the boygave sidelong glances at his new friend, and wondered at the Colonel'sloose trousers, long moustaches, and yellow face. He looked very odd, Clive thought, very odd and very kind, and like a gentleman, every inchof him:--not like Martin's father, who came to see his son lately inhighlows, and a shocking bad hat, and actually flung coppers amongst theboys for a scramble. He burst out a-laughing at the exquisitely ludicrousidea of a gentleman of his fashion scrambling for coppers. 

And now enjoining the boy to be ready against his return, the Colonelwhirled away in his cab to the city to shake hands with his brothers, whom he had not seen since they were demure little men in blue jacketsunder charge of a serious tutor. 

He rushed into the banking house, broke into the parlour where the lordsof the establishment were seated, and astonished these trim, quietgentlemen by the warmth of his greeting, by the vigour of his handshake, and the loud tones of his voice, which might actually be heard by thebusy clerks in the hall without. He knew Bryan from Hobson at once--thatunlucky little accident in the go-cart having left its mark forever onthe nose of Sir Bryan Newcome. He had a bald head and light hair, a shortwhisker cut to his cheek, a buff waistcoat, very neat boots and hands, and was altogether dignified, bland, smiling, and statesmanlike. 

Hobson Newcome, Esquire, was more portly than his elder brother, andallowed his red whiskers to grow on his cheeks and under his chin. Hewore thick shoes with nails in them, and affected the country gentlemanin his appearance. His hat had a broad brim, and his ample pockets alwayscontained agricultural produce, samples of bean or corn, or a whiplash orballs for horses. In fine, he was a good old country gentleman, and abetter man of business than his more solemn brother, at whom he laughedin his jocular way; and said rightly that a gentleman must get up veryearly to get ahead of him. 

These gentlemen each received the Colonel in a manner consistent with hispeculiar nature. Sir Bryan regretted that Lady Ann was away from London, being at Brighton with the children, who were all ill of the measles. Hobson said, "Maria can't treat you to such good company as Lady Anncould give you; but when will you take a day and come and dine with us?Let's see, to-day is Wednesday; to-morrow we are engaged. Friday, we dineat Judge Budge's; Saturday I am going down to Marblehead to look afterthe hay. Come on Monday, Tom, and I'll introduce you to the missus andthe young uns. "

"I will bring Clive, " says Colonel Newcome, rather disturbed at thisreception. "After his illness my sister-in-law was very kind to him. "

"No, hang it, don't bring boys; there's no good in boys; they stop thetalk downstairs, and the ladies don't want 'em in the drawing-room. Sendhim to dine with the children on Sunday, if you like, and come along downwith me to Marblehead, and I'll show you such a crop of hay as will makeyour eyes open. Are you fond of farming?"

"I have not seen my boy for years, " says the Colonel; "I had rather passSaturday and Sunday with him, if you please, and some day we will go toMarblehead together. "

"Well, an offer's an offer. I don't know any pleasanter thing thangetting out of this confounded city and smelling the hedges, and lookingat the crops coming up, and passing the Sunday in quiet. " And his owntastes being thus agricultural, the worthy gentleman thought thateverybody else must delight in the same recreation. 

"In the winter, I hope, we shall see you at Newcome, " says the elderbrother, blandly smiling. "I can't give you any tiger-shooting, but I'llpromise you that you shall find plenty of pheasants in our jungle, " andhe laughed very gently at this mild sally. 

At this moment a fair-haired young gentleman, languid and pale, anddressed in the height of fashion, made his appearance and was introducedas the Baronet's oldest son, Barnes Newcome. He returned ColonelNewcome's greeting with a smile, saying, "Very happy to see you, I amsure. You find London very much changed since you were here? Very goodtime to come, the very full of the season. "

Poor Thomas Newcome was quite abashed by his strange reception. Here wasa man, hungry for affection, and one relation asked him to dinner nextMonday, and another invited him to shoot pheasants at Christmas. Here wasa beardless young sprig, who patronised him and asked him whether hefound London was changed. As soon as possible he ended the interview withhis step-brothers, and drove back to Ludgate Hill, where he dismissed hiscab and walked across the muddy pavements of Smithfield, on his way backto the old school where his son was, a way which he had trodden many atime in his own early days. There was Cistercian Street, and the Red Cowof his youth; there was the quaint old Grey Friars Square, with itsblackened trees and garden, surrounded by ancient houses of the build ofthe last century, now slumbering like pensioners in the sunshine. 

Under the great archway of the hospital he could look at the old Gothicbuilding; and a black-gowned pensioner or two crawling over the quietsquare, or passing from one dark arch to another. The boarding-houses ofthe school were situated in the square, hard by the more ancientbuildings of the hospital. A great noise of shouting, crying, clappingforms and cupboards, treble voices, bass voices, poured out of theschoolboys' windows; their life, bustle, and gaiety contrasted strangelywith the quiet of those old men, creeping along in their black gownsunder the ancient arches yonder, whose struggle of life was over, whosehope and noise and bustle had sunk into that grey calm. There was ThomasNewcome arrived at the middle of life, standing between the shouting boysand the tottering seniors and in a situation to moralise upon both, hadnot his son Clive, who espied him, come jumping down the steps to greethis sire. Clive was dressed in his very best; not one of those fourhundred young gentlemen had a better figure, a better tailor, or a neaterboot. Schoolfellows, grinning through the bars, envied him as he walkedaway; senior boys made remarks on Colonel Newcome's loose clothes andlong moustaches, his brown hands and unbrushed hat. The Colonel wassmoking a cheroot as he walked; and the gigantic Smith, the cock of theschool, who happened to be looking majestically out of the window, waspleased to say that he thought Newcome's governor was a finemanly-looking fellow. 

"Tell me about your uncles, Clive, " said the Colonel, as they walked onarm in arm. 

"What about them, sir?" asks the boy. "I don't think I know much. "

"You have been to stay with them. You wrote about them. Were theykind to you?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose they are very kind. They always tipped me: only youknow when I go there I scarcely ever see them. Mr. Newcome asks me theoftenest--two or three times a quarter when he's in town, and gives me asovereign regular. "

"Well, he must see you to give you the sovereign, " says Clive'sfather, laughing. 

The boy blushed rather. 

"Yes. When it's time to go back to Smithfield on a Saturday night, I gointo the dining-room to shake hands, and he gives it to me; but he don'tspeak to me much, you know, and I don't care about going to BryanstoneSquare, except for the tip (of course that's important), because I ammade to dine with the children, and they are quite little ones; and agreat cross French governess, who is always crying and shrieking afterthem, and finding fault with them. My uncle generally has his dinnerparties on Saturday, or goes out; and aunt gives me ten shillings andsends me to the play; that's better fun than a dinner party. " Here thelad blushed again. "I used, " said he, "when I was younger, to stand onthe stairs and prig things out of the dishes when they came out fromdinner, but I'm past that now. Maria (that's my cousin) used to take thesweet things and give 'em to the governess. Fancy! she used to put lumpsof sugar into her pocket and eat them in the schoolroom! Uncle Hobsondon't live in such good society as Uncle Newcome. You see, Aunt Hobson, she's very kind, you know, and all that, but I don't think she's what youcall _comme il faut_"

"Why, how are you to judge?" asks the father, amused at the lad's candidprattle, "and where does the difference lie?"

"I can't tell you what it is, or how it is, " the boy answered, "only onecan't help seeing the difference. It isn't rank and that: only somehowthere are some men gentlemen and some not, and some women ladies and somenot. There's Jones now, the fifth-form master, every man sees he's agentleman, though he wears ever so old clothes; and there's Mr. Brown, who oils his hair, and wears rings, and white chokers--my eyes! suchwhite chokers!--and yet we call him the handsome snob! And so about AuntMaria, she's very handsome and she's very finely dressed, only somehowshe's not the ticket, you see. "

"Oh, she's not the ticket?" says the Colonel, much amused. 

"Well, what I mean is--but never mind, " says the boy. "I can't tell youwhat I mean. I don't like to make fun of her, you know, for after allshe's very kind to me; but Aunt Ann is different, and it seems as if whatshe says is more natural; and though she has funny ways of her own, too, yet somehow she looks grander, "--and here the lad laughed again. "And doyou know, I often think that as good a lady as Aunt Ann herself, is oldAunt Honeyman at Brighton--that is, in all essentials, you know? And sheis not a bit ashamed of letting lodgings, or being poor herself, assometimes I think some of our family--"

"I thought we were going to speak no ill of them, " says theColonel, smiling. 

"Well, it only slipped out unawares, " says Clive, laughing, "but atNewcome when they go on about the Newcomes, and that great ass, BarnesNewcome, gives himself his airs, it makes me die of laughing. That time Iwent down to Newcome I went to see old Aunt Sarah, and she told meeverything, and do you know, I was a little hurt at first, for I thoughtwe were swells till then? And when I came back to school, where perhaps Ihad been giving myself airs, and bragging about Newcome, why, you know, Ithought it was right to tell the fellows. "

"That's a man, " said the Colonel, with delight; though had he said, "That's a boy, " he had spoken more correctly. "That's a man, " cried theColonel; "never be ashamed of your father, Clive. "

"_Ashamed of my father_!" says Clive, looking up to him, and walking onas proud as a peacock. "I say, " the lad resumed, after a pause--

"Say what you say, " said the father. 

"Is that all true what's in the Peerage--in the Baronetage, about UncleNewcome and Newcome; about the Newcome who was burned at Smithfield;about the one that was at the battle of Bosworth; and the old, oldNewcome who was bar--that is, who was surgeon to Edward the Confessor, and was killed at Hastings? I am afraid it isn't; and yet I should likeit to be true. "

"I think every man would like to come of an ancient and honourable race, "said the Colonel in his honest way. "As you like your father to be anhonourable man, why not your grandfather, and his ancestors before him?But if we can't inherit a good name, at least we can do our best to leaveone, my boy; and that is an ambition which, please God. , you and I willboth hold by. "

With this simple talk the old and young gentleman beguiled their way, until they came into the western quarter of the town, where HobsonNewcome lived in a handsome and roomy mansion. Colonel Newcome was benton paying a visit to his sister-in-law, although as they waited to be letin they could not but remark through the opened windows of thedining-room that a great table was laid and every preparation was madefor a feast. 

"My brother said he was engaged to dinner to-day, " said the Colonel. 

"Does Mrs. Newcome give parties when he is away?"

"She invites all the company, " answered Clive. "My uncle never asks anyone without aunt's leave. "

The Colonel's countenance fell. "He has a great dinner, and does not askhis own brother!" Newcome thought. "Why, if he had come to India with allhis family, he might have stayed for a year, and I should have beenoffended had he gone elsewhere. "

A hot menial in a red waistcoat came and opened the door, and withoutwaiting for preparatory queries said, "Not at home. "

"It's my father, John, " said Clive. "My aunt will see Colonel Newcome. "

"Missis is not at home, " said the man. "Missis is gone in carriage--Notat this door!--Take them things down the area steps, young man!"

This latter speech was addressed to a pastry cook's boy with a largesugar temple and many conical papers containing delicacies fordessert. "Mind the hice is here in time; or there'll be a blow-up withyour governor, "--and John struggled back, closing the door on theastonished Colonel. 

"Upon my life, they actually shut the door in our faces, " said the poorgentleman. 

"The man is very busy, sir. There's a great dinner. I'm sure my auntwould not refuse you, " Clive interposed. "She is very kind. I supposeit's different here from what it is in India. There are the children inthe Square, --those are the girls in blue, --that's the French governess, the one with the yellow parasol. How d'ye do, Mary? How d'ye do, Fanny?This is my father, --this is your uncle. "

The Colonel surveyed his little nieces with that kind expression whichhis face always wore when it was turned toward children. 

"Have you heard of your uncle in India?" he asked them. 

"No, " says Maria. 

"Yes, " says Fannie. "You know mademoiselle said that if we were naughtywe should be sent to our uncle in India. I think I should like to gowith you. "

"Oh, you silly child!" cries Maria. 

"Yes, I should, if Clive went, too, " says little Fanny. 

"Behold madame, who arrives from her promenade!" mademoiselle exclaimed, and, turning round, Colonel Newcome beheld, for the first time, hissister-in-law, a stout lady with fair hair and a fine bonnet and apelisse, who was reclining in her barouche with the scarlet plushgarments of her domestics blazing before and behind her. 

Clive ran towards his aunt. She bent over the carriage languidly towardshim. She liked him. "What, you, Clive!" she said, "How come you away fromschool of a Thursday, sir?"

"It is a holiday, " said he. "My father is come; and he is come to seeyou. "

She bowed her head with an expression of affable surprise and majesticsatisfaction. "Indeed, Clive!" she exclaimed, and the Colonel steppedforward and took off his hat and bowed and stood bareheaded. She surveyedhim blandly, and put forward a little hand, saying, "You have onlyarrived to-day, and you came to see me? That was very kind. Have you hada pleasant voyage? These are two of my girls. My boys are at school. Ishall be so glad to introduce them to their uncle. _This_ naughty boymight never have seen you, but that we took him home after the scarletfever, and made him well, didn't we Clive? And we are all very fond ofhim, and you must not be jealous of his love for his aunt. We feel thatwe quite know you through him, and we know that you know us, and we hopeyou will like us. Do you think your papa will like us, Clive? Or, perhapsyou will like Lady Ann best? Yes; you have been to her first, of course?Not been? Oh! because she is not in town. " Leaning fondly on Clive'sarm, mademoiselle standing with the children hard by, while John with hishat off stood at the opened door, Mrs. Newcome slowly uttered the aboveremarkable remarks to the Colonel, on the threshold of her house, whichshe never asked him to pass. 

"If you will come in to us about ten this evening, " she then said, "youwill find some men not undistinguished, who honour me of an evening. Perhaps they will be interesting to you, Colonel Newcome, as you arenewly arriven in Europe. A stranger coming to London could scarcely havea better opportunity of seeing some of our great illustrations of scienceand literature. We have a few friends at dinner, and now I must go in andconsult with my housekeeper. Good-bye for the present. Mind, not laterthan ten, as Mr. Newcome must be up betimes in the morning, and _our_parties break up early. When Clive is a little older I dare say we shallsee him, too. Goodbye!"

And again the Colonel was favoured with a shake of the hand, and the ladysailed up the stair, and passed in at the door, with not the faintestidea but that the hospitality which she was offering to her kinsman wasof the most cordial and pleasant kind. 

Having met Colonel Newcome on the steps of her house, she ordered him tocome to her evening party; and though he had not been to an evening partyfor five and thirty years--though he had not been to bed the nightbefore--he never once thought of disobeying Mrs. Newcome's order, but wasactually at her door at five minutes past ten, having arrayed himself, tothe wonderment of Clive, and left the boy to talk to Mr. Binnie, a friendand fellow-passenger, who had just arrived from Portsmouth, who haddined with him, and taken up his quarters at the same hotel. 

Well, then, the Colonel is launched in English society of an intellectualorder, and mighty dull he finds it. During two hours of desultoryconversation and rather meagre refreshments, the only bright spot is hismeeting with Charles Honeyman, his dead wife's brother, whom he wasmighty glad to see. Except for this meeting there was little to entertainthe Colonel, and as soon as possible he and Honeyman walked awaytogether, the Colonel returning to his hotel, where he found his friendJames Binnie installed in his room in the best arm-chair, sleeping-cosily, but he woke up briskly when the Colonel entered. "It isyou, you gadabout, is it?" cried Binnie. "See what it is to have a realfriend now, Colonel! I waited for you, because I knew you would want totalk about that scapegrace of yours. "

"Isn't he a fine fellow, James?" says the Colonel, lighting a cheroot ashe sits on the table. Was it joy, or the bedroom candle with which helighted his cigar, which illuminated his honest features so, and madethem so to shine?

"I have been occupied, sir, in taking the lad's moral measurement: and Ihave pumped him as successfully as ever I cross-examined a rogue in mycourt. I place his qualities thus:--Love of approbation, sixteen. Benevolence, fourteen. Combativeness, fourteen. Adhesiveness, two. Amativeness is not yet of course fully developed, but I expect will beprodigiously strong. The imaginative and reflective organs are verylarge; those of calculation weak. He may make a poet or a painter, or youmay make a sojor of him, though worse men than him's good enough forthat--but a bad merchant, a lazy lawyer, and a miserable mathematician. My opinion, Colonel, is that young scapegrace will give you a deal oftrouble; or would, only you are so absurdly proud of him, and you thinkeverything he does is perfection. He'll spend your money for you; he'lldo as little work as need be. He'll get into scrapes with the sax. He'salmost as simple as his father, and that is to say that any rogue willcheat him; and he seems to me to have your obstinate habit of telling thetruth, Colonel, which may prevent his getting on in the world; but on theother hand will keep him from going very wrong. So that, though there isevery fear for him, there's some hope and some consolation. "

"What do you think of his Latin and Greek?" asked the Colonel. Beforegoing out to his party Newcome had laid a deep scheme with Binnie, and ithad been agreed that the latter should examine the young fellow in hishumanities. 

"Wall, " cries the Scot, "I find that the lad knows as much about Greekand Latin as I knew myself when I was eighteen years of age. "

"My dear Binnie, is it possible? You, the best scholar in all India!"

"And which amounted to exactly nothing. By the admirable seestem purshoodat your public schools, just about as much knowledge as he could get bythree months' application at home. Mind ye, I don't say he would apply;it is most probable he would do no such thing. But, at the cost of--howmuch? two hundred pounds annually--for five years--he has acquired aboutfive and twenty guineas' worth of classical leeterature--enough, I daresay, to enable him to quote Horace respectably through life, and whatmore do you want from a young man of his expectations? I think I shouldsend him into the army, that's the best place for him--there's the leastto do and the handsomest clothes to wear, " says the little wag, daintilytaking up the tail of his friend's coat. "In earnest now, Tom Newcome, Ithink your boy is as fine a lad as I ever set eyes on. He seems to haveintelligence and good temper. He carries his letter of recommendation inhis countenance; and with the honesty--and the rupees, mind ye, --which heinherits from his father, the deuce is in it if he can't make his way. What time's the breakfast? Eh, but it was a comfort this morning not tohear the holystoning on the deck. We ought to go into lodgings, and notfling our money out of the window of this hotel. We must make the youngchap take us about and show us the town in the morning, eh, Colonel?"

With this the jolly gentleman nodded over his candle to his friend, andtrotted off to bed. 

The Colonel and his friend were light sleepers and early risers. The nextmorning when Binnie entered the sitting-room he found the Colonel hadpreceded him. "Hush, " says the Colonel, putting a long finger up to hismouth, and advancing towards him as noiselessly as a ghost. 

"What's in the wind now?" asks the little Scot; "and what for have ye notgot your shoes on?"

"Clive's asleep, " says the Colonel, with a countenance full ofextreme anxiety. 

"The darling boy slumbers, does he?" said the wag. "Mayn't I just step inand look at his beautiful countenance whilst he's asleep, Colonel?"

"You may if you take off those confounded creaking, shoes, " the otheranswered, quite gravely: and Binnie turned away to hide his jolly roundface, which was screwed up with laughter. 

"Have ye been breathing a prayer over your rosy infant's slumbers, Tom?"asks Mr. Binnie. 

"And if I have, James Binnie, " the Colonel said gravely, and his sallowface blushing somewhat, "if I have I hope I've done no harm. The lasttime I saw him asleep was nine years ago, a sickly little pale-facedboy, in his little cot, and now, sir, that I see him again, strong andhandsome and all that a fond father can wish to see a boy, I should be anungrateful villain, James, if I didn't do what you said just now, andthank God Almighty for restoring him to me. "

Binnie did not laugh any more. "By George! Tom Newcome, " said he, "you'rejust one of the saints of the earth. If all men were like you there'd bean end of both our trades; and there would be no fighting and nosoldiering, no rogues, and no magistrates to catch them. " The Colonelwondered at his friend's enthusiasm, who was not used to becomplimentary; indeed what so usual with him as that simple act ofgratitude and devotion about which his comrade spoke to him? To ask ablessing for his boy was as natural to him as to wake with the sunrise, or to go to rest when the day was over. His first and his last thoughtwas always the child. 

The two gentlemen were home in time enough to find Clive dressed, and hisuncle arrived for breakfast. The Colonel said a grace over that meal; thelife was begun which he had longed and prayed for, and the son smilingbefore his eyes who had been in his thoughts for so many fond years. 

If my memory serves me right it was at about this time that I, the humblebiographer of Mr. Clive Newcome's life, met him again for the first timesince my school days at Grey Friars. 

Going to the play one night with some fellows of my own age, and laughingenthusiastically at the farce, we became naturally hungry at midnight, and a desire for Welch Rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the"Cave of Harmony, " then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, with whom weenjoyed such intimacy that he never failed to greet us with a kind nod. We also knew the three admirable glee-singers. It happened that there wasa very small attendance at the "Cave" that night, and we were all moresociable and friendly because the company was select. The songs werechiefly of the sentimental class; such ditties were much in vogue at thetime of which I speak. 

There came into the "Cave" a gentleman with a lean brown face and longblack moustaches, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a strangerto the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. He waspointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling forsherry and water, he listened to the music, and twirled his moustacheswith great enthusiasm. 

At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the table, boundedacross the room, ran to me with his hands out, and, blushing, said, "Don't you know me?"

It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had not seen for sixyears, grown a fine tall young stripling now, with the same bright blueeyes which I remembered when he was quite a little boy. 

"What the deuce brings you here?" said I. 

He laughed and looked roguish. "My father--that's my father--would come. He's just come back from India. He says all the wits used to come here. Itold him your name, and that you used to be very kind to me when I firstwent to Smithfield. I've left now: I'm to have a private tutor. I say, I've got such a jolly pony. It's better fun than old Smiffle. "

Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, strode across the roomtwirling his moustaches, and came up to the table where we sat, making asalutation with his hat in a very stately and polite manner, so thatHoskins himself felt obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured amongthemselves, and that mischievous little wag, little Nadab theImprovisatore, began to mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers, afterthe manner of the stranger, and flapping about his pocket-handkerchief inthe most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this sternly, looking towardsNadab, and at the same time calling upon the gents to give their orders. 

Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me, and he spoke in avoice so soft and pleasant, and with a cordiality so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away ashamed; and gave place to a feeling muchmore respectful and friendly. 

"I have heard of your kindness, sir, " says he, "to my boy. And whoever iskind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me to sit down by you? And mayI beg you to try my cheroots?" We were friends in a minute, young Newcomesnuggling by my side, his father opposite, to whom, after a minute or twoof conversation, I presented my three college friends. 

"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits, " says the Colonel. "Arethere any celebrated persons in the room? I have been five and thirtyyears from home, and want to see all there is to be seen. "

King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was about to point out ahalf dozen of people in the room, as the most celebrated wits of thatday; but I cut King's shins under the table, and got the fellow to holdhis tongue, while Jones wrote on his card to Hoskins, hinted to him thata boy was in the room, and a gentleman who was quite a greenhorn: hencethat the songs had better be carefully selected. 

And so they were. A lady's school might have come in, and have taken noharm by what happened. It was worth a guinea to see the simple Coloneland his delight at the music. He forgot all about the distinguished witswhom he had expected to see, in his pleasure over the glees, and joinedin all the choruses with an exceedingly sweet voice. 

And now young Nadab commenced one of those surprising feats ofImprovisation with which he used to charm audiences. He took us all offand had rhymes pat about all the principal persons in the room; when hecame to the Colonel himself, he burst out--

A military gent I see, and while his face I scan, I think you'll all agree with me he came from Hindostan. And by his side sits laughing free a youth with curly head, I think you'll all agree with me that he was best in bed. Ritolderol, etc. , etc. 

The Colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped his son, youngClive, on the shoulder. "Hear what he says of you, sir? Clive, best beoff to bed, my boy--ho, ho! No, no. We know a trick worth two of that. 'We won't go home till morning, till daylight does appear. ' Why shouldwe? Why shouldn't my boy have innocent pleasure? I was allowed none whenI was a young chap, and the severity was nearly the ruin of me. I must goand speak with that young man--the most astonishing thing I ever heard inmy life. What's his name? Mr. Nadab? Mr. Nadab; sir, you have delightedme. May I make so free as to ask you to come and dine with me to-morrowat six. I am always proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, andyou are one or my name is not Newcome!"

"Sir, you do me the Honour, " says Mr. Nadab, "and perhaps the day willcome when the world will do me justice, --may I put down your Honouredname for my book of poems?"

"Of course, my dear sir, " says the enthusiastic Colonel, "I'll send themall over India. Put me down for six copies and do me the favour to bringthem to-morrow when you come to dinner. "

And now Mr. Hoskins, asking if any gentleman would volunteer a song, whatwas our amazement when the simple Colonel offered to sing himself, atwhich the room applauded vociferously; whilst methought poor CliveNewcome hung down his head, and blushed as red as a peony. 

The Colonel selected the ditty of "Wapping Old Stairs, " which charmingold song he sang so pathetically that even the professional gentlemenbuzzed a sincere applause, and some wags who were inclined to jeer at thebeginning of the performance, clinked their glasses and rapped theirsticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the song was over, Cliveheld up his head too; looked round with surprise and pleasure in hiseyes; and we, I need not say, backed our friend, delighted to see himcome out of his queer scrape so triumphantly. The Colonel bowed andsmiled with very pleasant good-nature at our plaudits. There wassomething touching in the naivetée and kindness of the placid and simplegentleman. 

Whilst the Colonel had been singing his ballad there had come into theroom a gentleman, by name Captain Costigan, who was in his usualcondition at this hour of the night. Holding on by various tables, he hadsidled up without accident to himself or any of the jugs and glassesround about him, to the table where we sat, and seated himself warblingthe refrain of the Colonel's song. Then having procured a glass ofwhiskey and water he gave what he called one of his prime songs. Theunlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was doing or saying, selectedthe most offensive song in his repertoire. At the end of the second versethe Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, seizing his stick, andlooking ferocious. "Silence!" he roared out. 

"Hear, hear!" cried certain wags at a farther table. "Go on, Costigan!"said others. 

"Go on!" cries the Colonel in his high voice, trembling with anger. "Doesany gentleman say go on? Does any man who has a wife and sisters orchildren at home, say go on? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself agentleman, and to say that you hold the King's commission, and to sitamongst Christians and men of honour, and defile the ears of young boyswith this wicked balderdash?"

"Why do you bring young boys here, old boy?" cries a voice of themalcontents. 

"Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society of gentlemen, " criedout the indignant Colonel. "Because I never could have believed thatEnglishmen could meet together and allow a man, and an old man, so todisgrace himself. For shame, you old wretch! Go home to your bed, youhoary old sinner! And for my part, I'm not sorry that my son should see, for once in his life, to what shame and degradation and dishonour, drunkenness and whiskey may bring a man. Never mind the change, sir!--Curse the change!" says the Colonel, facing the amazed waiter. "Keep it till you see me in this place again; which will be never--byGeorge, never!" And shouldering his stick, and scowling round at thecompany of scared bacchanalians, the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after him. 

Clive seemed rather shamedfaced, but I fear the rest of the companylooked still more foolish. For if the truth be told that uplifted caneof the Colonel's had somehow fallen on the back of every man in the room. 

While Clive and his father are becoming better acquainted let us pass onto Brighton, and glance at the household of that good, brisk old lady, Clive's Aunt Honeyman. Now Aunt Honeyman was a woman of spirit andresolution, and when she found her income sadly diminished by financialreverses she brought her furniture to Brighton, also a faithful maidservant who had learned her letters and worked her first sampler underMiss Honeyman's own eye, and whom she adored all through her life. Withthis outfit the brisk little lady took a house, and let the upper floorsto lodgers, and because of her personal attractions and her goodhousekeeping her rooms were seldom empty. 

On the morning when we first visit Miss Honeyman's a gentleman had justapplied there for rooms. "Please to speak to mistress, " says Hannah, themaid, opening the parlour door with a curtsey. "A gentleman about theapartments, mum. "

"Fife bet-rooms, " says the man entering. "Six bets, two or dreesitting-rooms? We gome from Dr. Good-enough. "

"Are the apartments for you, sir?" says Miss Honeyman, looking up at thelarge gentleman. 

"For my lady, " answers the man. 

"Had you not better take off your hat?" asks Miss Honeyman. 

The man grins and takes off his hat. Whereupon Miss Honeyman, havingheard also that a German's physician has especially recommended MissHoneyman's as a place in which one of his patients can have a change ofair and scene, informs the man that she can let his mistress have thedesired number of apartments. The man reports to his mistress, whodescends to inspect the apartments, and pronounces them exceedingly neatand pleasant and exactly what are wanted. The baggage is forthwithordered to be brought from the carriages. The little invalid, wrapped inhis shawl, is carried upstairs as gently as possible, while the youngladies, the governess, the maids, are shown to their apartments. Theeldest young lady, a slim black-haired young lass of thirteen, frisksabout the rooms, looks at all the pictures, runs in and out of theveranda, tries the piano, and bursts out laughing at its wheezy jingle. She also kisses her languid little brother laid on the sofa, and performsa hundred gay and agile motions suited to her age. 

"Oh, what a piano! Why, it is as cracked as Miss Quigley's voice!"

"My dear!" says mamma. The little languid boy bursts out into ajolly laugh. 

"What funny pictures, mamma! Action with Count de Grasse; the death ofGeneral Wolfe; a portrait of an officer, an old officer in blue, likegrandpapa; Brasenose College, Oxford; what a funny name. "

At the idea of Brasenose College, another laugh comes from the invalid. "I suppose they've all got _brass noses_ there, " he says; and he explodesat this joke. The poor little laugh ends in a cough, and mamma'stravelling basket, which contains everything, produces a bottle of syrup, labelled "Master A. Newcome. A teaspoonful to be taken when the cough istroublesome. "

"Oh, the delightful sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free, " sings theyoung lady, with a shake. "How much better is this than going home andseeing those horrid factories and chimneys! I love Dr. Goodenough forsending us here. What a sweet house it is. What nice rooms!"

Presently little Miss Honeyman makes her appearance in a large capbristling with ribbons, with her best chestnut front and her best blacksilk gown, on which her gold watch shines very splendidly. She curtseyswith dignity to her lodger, who vouchsafes a very slight inclination ofthe head, saying that the apartments will do very well. 

"And they have such a beautiful view of the sea!" cries Ethel. 

"As if all the houses hadn't a view of the sea, Ethel! The price has beenarranged, I think? My servants will require a comfortable room to dinein--by themselves mam, if you please. My governess and the youngerchildren will dine together. My daughter dines with me--and my littleboy's dinner will be ready at two o'clock precisely if you please. It isnow near one. "

"Am I to understand--?" interposed Miss Honeyman. 

"Oh! I have no doubt we shall understand each other, mam, " cried Lady AnnNewcome, for it was no other than that noble person, with her children, who had invaded the precincts of Miss Honeyman's home. "Dr. Goodenoughhas given me a most satisfactory account of you--more satisfactory, perhaps, than you are aware of. Breakfast and tea, if you please, will beserved in the same manner as dinner, and you will have the kindness toorder fresh milk every morning for my little boy--ass's milk. Dr. Goodenough has ordered ass's milk. Anything further I want I willcommunicate through the man who first spoke to you--and that will do. "

A heavy shower of rain was descending at this moment, and little MissHoneyman, looking at her lodger, who had sat down and taken up her book, said, "Have your ladyship's servants unpacked your trunks?"

"What on earth, madam, have you--has that to do with the question?"

"They will be put to the trouble of packing again, I fear. I cannotprovide--three times five are fifteen--fifteen separate meals for sevenpersons--besides those of my own family. If your servants cannot eatwith mine, or in my kitchen, they and their mistress must go elsewhere. And the sooner the better, madam, the sooner the better!" says MissHoneyman, trembling with indignation, and sitting down in a chair, spreading her silks. 

"Do you know who I am?" asks Lady Ann, rising. 

"Perfectly well, madam, " says the other, "And had I known, you shouldnever have come into my house, that's more. "

"Madam!" cries the lady, on which the poor little invalid, scared andnervous, and hungry for his dinner, began to cry from his sofa. 

"It will be a pity that the dear little boy should be disturbed. Dearlittle child, I have often heard of him, and of you, miss, " says thelittle householder, rising. "I will get you some dinner, my dear, forClive's sake. And meanwhile your ladyship will have the kindness to seekfor some other apartments--for not a bit shall my fire cook for any oneelse of your company. " And with this the indignant little landlady sailedout of the room. 

"Gracious goodness! Who is the woman?" cries Lady Ann. "I never was soinsulted in my life. "

"Oh, mamma, it was you began!" says downright Ethel. "That is--Hush, Alfred dear, --Hush my darling!"

"Oh, it was mamma began! I'm so hungry! I'm so hungry!" howled the littleman on the sofa, or off it rather, for he was now down on the groundkicking away the shawls which enveloped him. 

"What is it, my boy? What is it, my blessed darling? You _shall_ haveyour dinner! Give her all, Ethel. There are the keys of my desk, there'smy watch, there are my rings. Let her take my all. The monster! The childmust live! It can't go away in such a storm as this. Give me a cloak, aparasol, anything--I'll go forth and get a lodging. I'll beg my breadfrom house to house, if this fiend refuses me. Eat the biscuits, dear! Alittle of the syrup, Alfred darling; it's very nice, love, and come toyour old mother--your poor old mother. "

Alfred roared out, "No, it's not n--ice; it's n-a-a-sty! I won't havesyrup. I _will_ have dinner. " The mother, whose embraces the childrepelled with infantine kicks, plunged madly at the bells, rang them allfour vehemently, and ran downstairs towards the parlour, whence MissHoneyman was issuing. 

The good lady had not at first known the names of her lodgers, until oneof the nurses intrusted with the care of Master Alfred's dinner informedher that she was entertaining Lady Ann Newcome; and that the pretty girlwas the fair Miss Ethel; the little sick boy, the little Alfred of whomhis cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had made a hundred little drawings inhis rude way, as he drew everybody. Then bidding Sally run off to St. James Street for a chicken, she saw it put on the spit, and prepared abread sauce, and composed a batter-pudding, as she only knew how to makebatter puddings. Then she went to array herself in her best clothes, aswe have seen; then she came to wait upon Lady Ann, not a little flurriedas to the result of that queer interview; then she whisked out of thedrawing-room, as before has been shown; and, finding the chicken roastedto a turn, the napkin and tray ready spread by Hannah the neat-handed, she was bringing them up to the little patient when the frantic parentmet her on the stair. 

"Is it--is it for my child?" cried Lady Ann, reeling against thebannister. 

"Yes, it's for the child, " says Miss Honeyman, tossing up her head. "Butnobody else has anything in the house. "

"God bless you! God bless you! A mother's bl--l-ess-ings go with you, "gurgled the lady, who was not, it must be confessed, a woman of strongmoral character. 

It was good to see the little man eating the fowl. Ethel, who had nevercut anything in her young existence, except her fingers now and then withher brother's and her governess's penknives, bethought her of asking MissHoneyman to carve the chicken. Lady Ann, with clasped hands and streamingeyes, sat looking on at the ravishing scene. 

"Why did you not let us know you were Clive's aunt?" Ethel asked, puttingout her hand. The old lady took hers very kindly, and said, "Because youdidn't give me time, --and do you love Clive, my dear?"

The reconciliation between Miss Honeyman and her lodger was perfect, andfor a brief season Lady Ann Newcome was in rapture with her new lodgingsand every person and thing which they contained. The drawing-rooms werefitted with the greatest taste; the dinner was exquisite; were there eversuch delicious veal cutlets, such fresh French beans?

"Indeed they were very good, " said Miss Ethel, "I am so glad you like thehouse, and Clive, and Miss Honeyman. "

Ethel's mother was constantly falling in love with new acquaintances; sothese raptures were no novelty to her daughter. Ethel had had so manygovernesses, all darlings during the first week, and monsters afterwards, that the poor child possessed none of the accomplishments of her age. She could not play on the piano; she could not speak French well; shecould not tell you when gunpowder was invented; she had not the faintestidea of the date of the Norman Conquest, or whether the earth went roundthe sun, or vice versa. She did not know the number of counties inEngland, Scotland and Wales, let alone Ireland; she did not know thedifference between latitude and longitude. She had had so manygovernesses; their accounts differed; poor Ethel was bewildered by amultiplicity of teachers, and thought herself a monster of ignorance. They gave her a book at a Sunday school, and little girls of eight yearsold answered questions of which she knew nothing. The place swam beforeher. She could not see the sun shining on their fair flaxen heads andpretty faces. The rosy little children, holding up their eager hands andcrying the answer to this question and that, seemed mocking her. Sheseemed to read in the book, "Oh, Ethel, you dunce, dunce, dunce!" Shewent home silent in the carriage, and burst into bitter tears on her bed. Naturally a haughty girl of the highest spirit, resolute and imperious, this little visit to the parish school taught Ethel lessons more valuablethan ever so much arithmetic and geography. 

When Ethel was thirteen years old she had grown to be such a tall girlthat she overtopped her companions by a head or more, and morallyperhaps, also, felt herself too tall for their society. "Fancy myself, "she thought, "dressing a doll like Lily Putland, or wearing a pinaforelike Lucy Tucker!" She did not care for their sports. She could not walkwith them; it seemed as if everyone stared; nor dance with them at theacademy; nor attend the _Cours de Litterature Universelle et de ScienceComprehensive_ of the professor then the mode. The smallest girls tookher up in the class. She was bewildered by the multitude of things theybade her learn. At the youthful little assemblies of her sex, when, underthe guide of their respected governesses, the girls came to tea at sixo'clock, dancing, charades, and so forth, Ethel herded not with thechildren of her own age, nor yet with the teachers who sat apart at theseassemblies, imparting to each other their little wrongs. But Ethel rompedwith the little children, the rosy little trots, and took them on herknees, and told them a thousand stories. By these she was adored, andloved like a mother almost, for as such the hearty, kindly girl showedherself to them; but at home she was alone, and intractable, and didbattle with the governesses, and overcame them one after another. 

While Lady Ann Newcome and her children were at Brighton, Lady Kew, mother of Lady Ann, was also staying there, but refused to visit thehouse in which her daughter was stopping for fear that she herself mightcontract the disease from which her grandchildren were recovering. Shereceived news of them, however, through her grandson, Lord Kew, and hisfriend Jack Belsize, who enjoyed dining with the old lady whenever theywere given the opportunity. Having met their cousins one day beforedining with Lady Kew their news was most interesting and enthusiastic. 

"That little chap who has just had the measles--he's a dear littlebrick, " said Jack Belsize. "And as for Miss Ethel--"

"Ethel is a trump, mam, " says Lord Kew, slapping his hand on his knee. 

"Ethel is a brick, and Alfred is a trump, I think you say, " remarks LadyKew, "and Barnes is a snob. This is very satisfactory to know. "

"We met the children out to-day, " cries the enthusiastic Kew, "as I wasdriving Jack in the drag, and I got out and talked to 'em. The littlefellow wanted a drive and I said I would drive him and Ethel, too, if shewould come. Upon my word she's as pretty a girl as you can see on asummer's day. And the governess said, no, of course; governesses alwaysdo. But I said I was her uncle, and Jack paid her such a fine complimentthat she finally let the children take their seats beside me, and Jackwent behind. We drove on to the Downs; my horses are young, and when theyget on the grass they are as if they were mad. They ran away, ever sofar, and I thought the carriage must upset. The poor little boy, who haslost his pluck in the fever, began to cry; but that young girl, thoughshe was as white as a sheet, never gave up for a moment, and sat in herplace like a man. We met nothing, luckily; and I pulled the horses inafter a mile or two, and I drove 'em into Brighton as quiet as if I hadbeen driving a hearse. And that little trump of an Ethel, what do youthink she said? She said: 'I was not frightened, but you must not tellmamma. ' My aunt, it appears, was in a dreadful commotion. I ought to havethought of that. "

There is a brother of Sir Brian Newcome's staying with them, Lord Kewperceives; an East India Colonel, a very fine-looking old boy. He was onthe lookout for them, and when they came in sight he despatched a boy whowas with him, running like a lamplighter, back to their aunt to say allwas well. And he took little Alfred out of the carriage, and then helpedout Ethel, and said, "My dear, you are too pretty to scold; but you havegiven us all a great fright. " And then he made Kew and Jack a low bow, and stalked into the lodgings. Then they went up and made their peace andwere presented in form to the Colonel and his youthful cub. 

"As fine a fellow as I ever saw, " cries Jack Belsize. "The young chap isa great hand at drawing--upon my life the best drawings I ever saw. Andhe was making a picture for little What-do-you-call-'im, and Miss Newcomewas looking over them. And Lady Ann pointed out the group to me, and saidhow pretty it was. "

In consequence of this conversation, which aroused her curiosity, LadyKew sent a letter that night to Lady Ann Newcome, desiring that Ethelshould be sent to see her grandmother; Ethel, who was no weakling incharacter despite her youth, and who always rebelled against hergrandmother and always fought on her Aunt Julia's side when that amiableinvalid lady, who lived with her mother, was oppressed by the dominatingolder woman. 

From the foregoing facts we gather that Thomas Newcome had not been manyweeks in England before he favoured good little Miss Honeyman with avisit, to her great delight. You may be sure that the visit was an eventin her life. And she was especially pleased that it should occur at thetime when the Colonel's kinsfolk were staying under her roof. On the dayof the Colonel's arrival all the presents which Newcome had ever sent hissister-in-law from India had been taken out of the cotton and lavender inwhich the faithful creature kept them. It was a fine hot day in June, butI promise you Miss Honeyman wore her blazing scarlet Cashmere shawl; hergreat brooch, representing the Taj of Agra, was in her collar; and herbracelets decorated the sleeves round her lean old hands, which trembledwith pleasure as they received the kind grasp of the Colonel of colonels. How busy those hands had been that morning! What custards they hadwhipped! What a triumph of pie-crusts they had achieved! Before ColonelNewcome had been ten minutes in the house the celebrated veal-cutletsmade their appearance. Was not the whole house adorned in expectation ofhis coming? The good woman's eyes twinkled, the kind old hand and voiceshook, as, holding up a bright glass of Madeira, Miss Honeyman drank theColonel's health. "I promise you, my dear Colonel, " says she, nodding herhead, adorned with a bristling superstructure of lace and ribbons, "Ipromise you, that I can drink your health in good wine!" The wine was ofhis own sending, and so were the China firescreens, and the sandal-woodwork-box, and the ivory card case, and those magnificent pink and whitechessmen, carved like little sepoys and mandarins, with the castles onelephants' backs, George the Third and his queen in pink ivory againstthe Emperor of China and lady in white--the delight of Clive'schildhood, the chief ornament of the old spinster's sitting-room. 

Miss Honeyman's little feast was pronounced to be the perfection ofcookery; and when the meal was over, came a noise of little feet at theparlour door, which being opened, there appeared: first, a tall nursewith a dancing baby; second and third, two little girls with littlefrocks, little trowsers, long ringlets, blue eyes, and blue ribbons tomatch; fourth, Master Alfred, now quite recovered from his illness andholding by the hand, fifth, Miss Ethel Newcome, blushing like a rose. 

Hannah, grinning, acted as mistress of the ceremonies, calling out thenames of "Miss Newcome, Master Newcome, to see the Colonel, if youplease, ma'am, " bobbing a curtsey, and giving a knowing nod to MasterClive, as she smoothed her new silk apron. Miss Ethel did not ceaseblushing as she advanced towards her uncle; and the honest campaignerstarted up, blushing too. Mr. Clive rose also, as little Alfred, of whomhe was a great friend, ran towards him. Clive rose, laughed, nodded atEthel, and ate ginger-bread nuts all at the same time. As for ColonelThomas Newcome and his niece, they fell in love with each otherinstantaneously, like Prince Camaralzaman and the Princess of China. 

"Mamma has sent us to bid you welcome to England, uncle, " says MissEthel, advancing, and never thinking for a moment of laying aside thatfine blush which she brought into the room, and which was her prettysymbol of youth and modesty and beauty. 

He took a little slim white hand and laid it down on his brown palm, where it looked all the whiter; he cleared the grizzled moustache fromhis mouth, and stooping down he kissed the little white hand with a greatdeal of grace and dignity, after which he was forever the humble anddevoted admirer of that bright young girl. 

Raising himself from his salute, he heard a pretty little infantilechorus. "How do you do, uncle?" said girls number two and three, whilethe dancing baby in the arms of the bobbing nurse babbled a welcome. Alfred looked up for a while at his uncle in the white trousers, and theninstantly proposed that Clive should make some drawings; and was on hisknees at the next moment. He was always climbing on somebody orsomething, or winding over chairs, curling through bannisters, standingon somebody's head, or his own head; as his convalescence advanced, hisbreakages were fearful. Miss Honeyman and Hannah talked about hisdilapidations for years after. When he was a jolly young officer in theGuards, and came to see them at Brighton, they showed him the blue dragonChayny jar on which he would sit, and over which he cried so fearfullyupon breaking it. 

When this little party had gone out smiling to take its walk on the seashore, the Colonel from his balcony watched the slim figure of prettyEthel, looked fondly after her, and as the smoke of his cigar floated inthe air, formed a fine castle in it, whereof Clive was Lord, and EthelLady. "What a frank, generous, bright young creature is yonder!" thoughthe. "How cheering and gay she is; how good to Miss Honeyman, to whom shebehaved with just the respect that was the old lady's due. Howaffectionate with her brothers and sisters! What a sweet voice she had!What a pretty little white hand it is! When she gave it me, it lookedlike a little white bird lying in mine. "

Thus mused the Colonel, upon the charms of the young girl who washenceforth to occupy the first place in his affection. 

His admiration for her might have been still further heightened had hebeen at Lady Ann's breakfast table some four or five weeks later, whenLady Ann and her nursery had just returned to London, little Alfred beingperfectly set up by a month of Brighton air. Barnes Newcome had justdiscovered an article in the Newcome Independent commenting warmly upon avisit which Colonel Newcome and Clive had recently paid to Newcome, theobject of that visit having been the Colonel's desire to gladden the eyesof his old nurse Sarah with a sight of him. Inhabitants of Newcome, feeling that the same Sarah Mason, who was a much respected member of thecommunity, was much neglected by her rich and influential relatives inLondon, took great delight in commenting upon the Colonel's attention tothe aged woman. The article in the Independent on that subject wasanything but pleasing to the family pride of Mr. Barnes, who remarked ina sneering tone, "My uncle the Colonel, and his amiable son, have beenpaying a visit to Newcome. That is the news which the paper announcestriumphantly, " said Mr. Barnes. 

"You are always sneering about our uncle, " broke in Ethel, impetuously, "and saying unkind things about Clive. Our uncle is a dear, good, kindman, and I love him. He came to Brighton to see us, and went out everyday for hours and hours with Alfred; and Clive, too, drew pictures forhim. And he is good, and kind, and generous, and honest as his father. Barnes is always speaking ill of him behind his back; and Miss Honeymanis a dear little old woman too. Was not she kind to Alfred, mamma, anddid not she make him nice jelly?"

"Did you bring some of Miss Honeyman's lodging-house cards with you, Ethel?" sneered her brother, "and had we not better hang up one or two inLombard Street; hers and our other relation's, Mrs. Mason?"

"My darling love, who _is_ Mrs. Mason?" asks Lady Ann. 

"Another member of the family, ma'am. She was cousin--"

"She was no such thing, sir, " roars Sir Brian. 

"She was relative and housemaid of my grandfather during his firstmarriage. She has retired into private life in her native town ofNewcome. The Colonel and young Clive have been spending a few days withtheir elderly relative. It's all here in the paper, by Jove!" Mr. Barnesclenched his fist and stamped upon the newspaper with much energy. 

"And so they should go down and see her, and so the Colonel should lovehis nurse and not forget his relations if they are old and poor!"cries Ethel, with a flush on her face, and tears starting in her eyes. "The Colonel went to her like a kind, dear, good brave uncle as he is. The very day I go to Newcome I'll go to see her. " She caught a look ofnegation in her father's eye. "I will go--that is, if papa will give meleave, " says Miss Ethel, adding simply, "if we had gone sooner therewould not have been all this abuse of us in the papers. " To whichstatement her worldly father and brother perforce agreeing, we maycongratulate good old nurse Sarah upon adding to the list of herfriends such a frank, open-hearted, high-spirited young woman as MissEthel Newcome. 

In spite of the notoriety given him in the newspapers by his visit toNurse Sarah, at his native place, he still remained in high favour withSir Brian Newcome's family, where he paid almost daily visits, and wasreceived with affection at least by the ladies and children of the house. Who was it that took the children to Astley's but Uncle Newcome? I sawhim there in the midst of a cluster of these little people, all childrentogether, the little girls, Sir Brian's daughters, holding each by afinger of his hands, young Masters Alfred and Edward clapping andhurrahing by his side; while Mr. Clive and Miss Ethel sat in the back ofthe box enjoying the scene, but with that decorum which belonged to theirsuperior age and gravity. As for Clive, he was in these matters mucholder than the grizzled old warrior his father. It did one good to hearthe Colonel's honest laughs at Clown's jokes, and to see the tendernessand simplicity with which he watched over this happy brood of young ones. How lavishly did he supply them with sweetmeats between the acts! Therehe sat in the midst of them, and ate an orange himself with perfectsatisfaction, and was eager to supply any luxury longed for by his youngcompanions. 

The Colonel's organ of benevolence was so large that he would haveliked to administer bounties to the young folks his nephews and niecesin Brianstone Square, as well as to their cousins in Park Lane; butMrs. Newcome was a great deal too virtuous to admit of such spoiling ofchildren. She took the poor gentleman to task for an attempt upon herboys when those lads came home for their holidays, and caused themruefully to give back the shining gold sovereigns with which theiruncle had thought to give them a treat. So the Colonel was obliged toconfine his benevolence to that branch of the family where it wasgraciously accepted. 

Meanwhile the Colonel had a new interest to absorb his attention. He hadtaken a new house at 120 Fitzroy Square in connection with that Indianfriend of his, Mr. Binnie. The house being taken, there was fineamusement for Clive, Mr. Binnie, and the Colonel, in frequenting sales, in inspection of upholsterers' shops, and the purchase of furniture forthe new mansion. There were three masters with four or five servantsunder them. Irons for the Colonel and his son, a smart boy with bootsfor Mr. Binnie; Mrs. Irons to cook and keep house, with a couple ofmaids under her. The Colonel himself was great at making hash mutton, hotpot, and curry. What cosy pipes did we not smoke in the dining-room, in the drawing-room, or where we would! What pleasant evenings did wenot have together. 

Clive had a tutor--Grindley of Corpus--with whom the young gentleman didnot fatigue his brains very much, his great talent lying decidedly indrawing. He sketched the horses, he sketched the dogs, all the servants, from the bleer-eyed boot-boy to the rosy cheeked lass whom thehousekeeper was always calling to come downstairs. He drew his father inall postures, and jolly little Mr. Binnie too. Young Ridley, known to hisyoung companions as J. J. , was his daily friend now, to the great joy ofthat young man, who considered Clive Newcome to be the most splendid, fortunate, beautiful, high-born and gifted youth in the world. Whatgenerous boy in his time has not worshipped somebody? Before the femaleenslaver makes her appearance, every lad has a friend of friends, a cronyof cronies, to whom he writes immense letters in vacation, whom hecherishes in his hearts of hearts; whose sister he proposes to marry inafter life; whose purse he shares; for whom he will take a thrashing ifneed be; who is his hero. Clive was John James's youthful divinity; whenhe wanted to draw Thaddeus of Warsaw, a Prince, Ivanhoe, or some onesplendid and egregious, it was Clive he took for a model. His heart leaptwhen he saw the young fellow. He would walk cheerfully to Grey Friarswith a letter or message for C. On the chance of seeing him and getting akind word from him or a shake of the hand. The poor lad was known by theboys as Newcome's Punch. He was all but hunchback, long and lean in thearm; sallow, with a great forehead and waving black hair, and largemelancholy eyes. But his genius for drawing was enormous, which factClive fully appreciated. Because of J. J. 's admiration for Clive it washis joy to be with Clive constantly; and after Grindley's classics andmathematics in the morning, the young men would attend Gandish's DrawingAcademy, together. 

"Oh, " says Clive, if you talk to him now about those early days, "itwas a jolly time! I do not believe there was any young fellow in Londonso happy. "

Clive had many conversations with his father as to the profession whichhe should follow. As regarded mathematical and classical learning, theelder Newcome was forced to admit that out of every hundred boys therewere fifty as clever as his own, and at least fifty more industrious;the army in time of peace Colonel Newcome thought a bad trade for ayoung fellow so fond of ease and pleasure as his son. His delight in thepencil was manifest to all. Were not his school books full of caricaturesof the masters? While his tutor was lecturing him, did he not drawGrindley instinctively under his very nose? A painter Clive wasdetermined to be, and nothing else; and Clive, being then some sixteenyears of age, began to study art under the eminent Mr. Gandish of Soho. 

It was that well-known portrait painter, Andrew Smee, Esq. , R. A. , whorecommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome one day when the two gentleman metat dinner at Lady Ann Newcome's. Mr. Smee happened to examine some ofClive's drawings, which the young fellow had executed for his cousins. Clive found no better amusement than in making pictures for them andwould cheerfully pass evening after evening in that direction. He hadmade a thousand sketches of Ethel before a year was over; a year everyday of which seemed to increase the attractions of the fair youngcreature. Also, of course Clive drew Alfred and the nursery in general, Aunt Ann and the Blenheim spaniels, the majestic John bringing in thecoal-scuttle, and all persons or objects in that establishment with whichhe was familiar. 

"What a genius the lad has, " the complimentary Mr. Smee averred; "what aforce and individuality there is in all his drawings! Look at his horses!Capital, by Jove, capital! And Alfred on his pony, and Miss Ethel in herSpanish hat, with her hair flowing in the wind! I must take this sketch, I positively must now, and show it to Landseer. "

And the courtly artist daintily enveloped the drawing in a sheet ofpaper, put it away in his hat, and vowed subsequently that the greatpainter had been delighted with the young man's performance. Smee was notonly charmed with Clive's skill as an artist, but thought his head wouldbe an admirable one to paint. Such a rich complexion, such fine turns inhis hair! Such eyes! To see real blue eyes was so rare now-a-days! Andthe Colonel too, if the Colonel would but give him a few sittings, thegrey uniform of the Bengal Cavalry, the silver lace, the little bit ofred ribbon just to warm up the picture! It was seldom, Mr. Smee declared, that an artist could get such an opportunity for colour. But nocajoleries could induce the Colonel to sit to any artist save one. Therehangs in Clive's room now, a head, painted at one sitting, of a manrather bald, with hair touched with grey, with a large moustache and asweet mouth half smiling beneath it, and melancholy eyes. Clive showsthat portrait of their grandfather to his children, and tells them thatthe whole world never saw a nobler gentleman. 

Well, then; Clive having decided to become an artist, on a day markedwith a white stone, Colonel Newcome with his son and Mr. Smee, R. A. , walked to Gandish's and entered the would-be artist on the roll call ofthat famous academy, and of J. J. As well, for the Colonel had insistedupon paying his expenses as an art student together with his son. 

Mr. Gandish was an excellent master and the two lads made great progressunder his excellent training. Clive used to give droll accounts of theyoung disciples at Gandish's, who were of various ages and conditions, and in whose company the young fellow took his place with that goodtemper and gaiety which seldom deserted him and put him at ease whereverhis fate led him. Not one of the Gandishites but liked Clive, and at thatperiod of his existence he enjoyed himself in all kinds of ways, makinghimself popular with dancing folks and with drawing folks, and the jollyking of his company everywhere. He gave entertainments in the rooms inFitzroy Square which were devoted to his use, inviting his father and Mr. Binnie now and then, but the good Colonel did not often attend thoseparties. He saw that his presence rather silenced the young men, and wentaway to play his rubber of whist at the club. And although time hung abit heavily on the good Colonel's hands, now that Clive's interests wereseparate from his own, yet of nights as he heard Clive's companionstramping by his bedchamber door, where he lay wakeful within, he washappy to think his son was happy. As for Clive, those were glorious daysfor him. If he was successful in the Academy, he was doubly victoriousout of it. His person was handsome, his courage high, his gaiety andfrankness delightful and winning. His money was plenty and he spent itlike a young king. He was not the most docile of Mr. Gandish's pupils, and if the truth must be told about him, though one of the most frank, generous and kind-hearted persons, was somewhat haughty and imperious. Hehad been known to lament since that he was taken from school too earlywhere a further course of thrashings would, he believed, have done himgood. He lamented that he was not sent to college, where if a young manreceives no other discipline at least he meets his equals in society andassuredly finds his betters; whereas in Mr. Gandish's studio our younggentleman scarcely found a comrade that was not in one way or other hisflatterer, his inferior, his honest or dishonest admirer. The influenceof his family's rank and wealth acted more or less on all these simplefolks, who would run on his errands and vied with each other winning hisfavour. His very goodness of heart rendered him a more easy prey totheir flattery, and his kind and jovial disposition led him into companyfrom which he had much better have been away. In fact, as the Colonel didnot attempt in any way to check him in his youthful career ofextravagance and experiences which were the result of an excessive highspirit, our young gentleman at this time brought down upon himself muchadverse criticism for his behaviour, especially from his uncles. Becauseof this and other reasons there was not much friendliness exhibited bythe several branches of the family for Clive and his father. ColonelNewcome, in spite of coldness, felt it his duty to make constant attemptsto remain on friendly terms at least with the wives of his stepbrothers. But after he had called twice or thrice upon his sister-in-law inBrianstone Square, bringing as was his wont a present for this littleniece or a book for that, Mrs. Newcome gave him to understand that theoccupation of an English matron would not allow her to pass the morningsin idle gossip, and with curtseys and fine speeches actually bowed herbrother out of doors; and the honest gentleman meekly left her, thoughwith bewilderment as he thought of the different hospitality to which hehad been accustomed in the East, where no friend's house was ever closedto him, where no neighbour was so busy but he had time to make ThomasNewcome welcome. 

When Hobson Newcome's boys came home for the holidays, their kind unclewas for treating them to the sights of the town, but here Virtue againinterposed, and laid his interdict upon pleasure. "Thank you, very much, my dear Colonel, " says Virtue; "there never was surely such a kind, affectionate, unselfish creature as you are, and so indulgent forchildren, but my boys and yours are brought up on a _very differentplan_. Excuse me for saying that I do not think it is advisable thatthey should even see too much of each other, Clive's company is not goodfor them. "

"Great heavens, Maria!" cries the Colonel, starting up, "do you mean thatmy boy's society is not good enough for any boy alive?"

Maria turned very red; she had said not more than she meant, but morethan she meant to say. "My dear Colonel, how hot we are! how angry youIndian gentlemen become with us poor women! Your boy is much older thanmine. He lives with artists, with all sorts of eccentric people. Ourchildren are bred on _quite a different plan_. Hobson will succeed hisfather in the bank, and dear Samuel, I trust, will go into the church. Itold you before the views I had regarding the boys; but it was most kindof you to think of them--most generous and kind. "

"That nabob of ours is a queer fish, " Hobson Newcome remarked to hisnephew Barnes. "He is as proud as Lucifer; he is always taking huff aboutone thing or the other. He went off in a fume the other night becauseyour aunt objected to his taking the boys to the play. And then he flewout about his boy, and said that my wife insulted him! I used to likethat boy. Before his father came he was a good lad enough--a jolly, bravelittle fellow. But since he has taken this madcap freak of turningpainter there is no understanding the chap. I don't care what a fellowis, if he is a good fellow, but a painter is no trade at all! I don'tlike it, Barnes!"

To Lady Ann Newcome the Colonel's society was more welcome than to hersister-in-law, and the affectionate gentleman never tired of doingkindnesses for her children, and consoled himself as best he might forClive's absences with his nephews and nieces, especially with Ethel, forwhom his admiration conceived at first sight never diminished. He founda fine occupation in breaking a pretty little horse for her, of which hemade her a present, and there was no horse in the Park that was sohandsome, and surely no girl who looked more beautiful than Ethel Newcomewith her broad hat and red ribbon, with her thick black locks wavinground her bright face, galloping along the ride on "Bhurtpore. "Occasionally Clive was at their riding-parties, but Ethel rallied him andtreated him with such distance and dignity, at the same time lookingfondly and archly at her uncle, that Clive set her down as a veryhaughty, spoiled, aristocratic young creature. In fact, the two youngpeople were too much alike in disposition to agree perfectly, and Ethel'sparents were glad that it was so. 

It was pleasant to watch the kind old face of Clive's father, thatsweet young blushing lady by his side, as the two rode homewards atsunset talking happily together. Ethel wanted to know about battles;about lover's lamps, which she had read of in "Lalla Rookh. " "Have youever seen them, uncle, floating down the Ganges of a night? AboutIndian widows, did you actually see one burning, and hear her scream asyou rode up?"

She wonders whether he will tell her anything about Clive's mother; howshe must have loved Uncle Newcome! Rambling happily from one subject toanother Ethel commands: "Next year, when I am presented at Court, youmust come, too, sir! I insist upon it, you must come, too!"

"I will order a new uniform, Ethel, " says her uncle. 

The girl laughs. "When little Egbert took hold of your sword, and askedyou how many people you had killed, do you know I had the same questionin my mind? I thought perhaps the King would knight you instead of thathorrid little Sir Danby Jilks, and I won't have you knighted anymore!"

The Colonel, laughing, says he hopes Egbert won't ask Sir Danby Jilks howmany men he has killed; then thinking the joke too severe upon Sir Danby, hastens to narrate some anecdotes about the courage of surgeons ingeneral. Ethel declares that her uncle always will talk of other people'scourage, and never say a word about his own. So the pair talked kindlyon, riding homewards through the pleasant summer twilight. Mamma had goneout to dinner and there were cards for three parties afterward. 

"Oh, how I wish it was next year!" says Miss Ethel. 

Many a splendid assembly and many a brilliant next year will the youngcreature enjoy; but in the midst of her splendour and triumphs she willoften think of that quiet happy season before the world began for her, and of that dear old friend on whose arm she leaned while she was yet ayoung girl. 

On account of the ugly rumours spread abroad concerning young Clive'sextravagant habits and gaiety of living, also on account of theprofession he had chosen, Sir Bryan Newcome's family preferred to haveyoung Clive see as little of his handsome Cousin Ethel as possible, andEthel's brother, Barnes, whose hatred for Clive was not untinged byjealousy, was the most vigorous of the family in spreading disagreeablereports about his cousin, whom he spoke of as an impudent young puppy. 

Even old Lady Kew was particularly rude to Colonel Newcome and Clive. OnEthel's birthday she had a small party chiefly of girls of her own agewho came and played and sang together and enjoyed such mild refreshmentsas sponge cake, jellies, tea, and the like. The Colonel, who was invitedto this little party, sent a fine present to his favourite Ethel; andClive and his friend J. J. Made a funny series of drawings, representingthe life of a young lady as they imagined it, and drawing her progressfrom her cradle upwards: now engaged with her doll, then with her dancingmaster; now marching in her backboard; now crying over her Germanlessons; and dressed for her first ball finally, and bestowing her handupon a dandy of preternatural ugliness, who was kneeling at her feet asthe happy man. This picture was the delight of the laughing, happy girls;except, perhaps, the little cousins from Brianstone Square, who wereinvited to Ethel's party, but were so overpowered by the prodigious newdresses in which their mamma had attired them that they could admirenothing but their rustling pink frocks, their enormous sashes, theirlovely new silk stockings. 

Lady Kew, coming to London, attended on the party, and presented hergranddaughter with a sixpenny pincushion. The Colonel had sent Ethel abeautiful little gold watch and chain. Her aunt had complimented her withthat refreshing work, "Allison's History of Europe, " richly bound. LadyKew's pincushion made rather a poor figure among the gifts, whenceprobably arose her ladyship's ill-humour. 

Ethel's grandmother became exceedingly testy, when, the Colonelarriving, Ethel ran up to him and thanked him for the beautiful watch, in return for which she gave him a kiss, which I daresay amply repaidColonel Newcome; and shortly after him Mr. Clive arrived. As he entered, all the girls who had been admiring his pictures began to clap theirhands. Mr. Clive Newcome blushed, and looked none the worse for thatindication of modesty. 

Lady Kew had met Colonel Newcome a half-dozen times at her daughter'shouse; but on this occasion she had quite forgotten him, for when theColonel made a bow, her ladyship regarded him steadily, and beckoning herdaughter to her, asked who the gentleman was who had just kissed Ethel. 

With the clapping of hands that greeted Clive's arrival, the Countess wasby no means more good-humoured. Not aware of her wrath, the young fellow, who had also previously been presented to her, came forward presently tomake her his compliments. "Pray, who are you?" she said, looking at himvery earnestly in the face. He told her his name. 

"H'm, " said Lady Kew, "I have heard of you, and I have heard very littlegood of you. "

"Will your ladyship please to give me your informant?" cried outColonel Newcome. 

Barnes Newcome, who had condescended to attend his sister's little party, and had been languidly watching the frolics of the young people, lookedvery much alarmed, and hastened to soften the incident by a change ofconversation. 

But the attitude of Lady Kew and young Barnes was only a reflection ofthe attitude of Ethel's parents concerning Clive, and Ethel, who wasreally friendly towards him, found it difficult to deny the charges whichwere constantly brought against the boy. The truth was the young fellowenjoyed life, as one of his age and spirit might be expected to do; buthe did very little harm and meant less; and was quite unconscious of thereputation which he was gaining. 

There had been a long-standing promise that Clive and his father were togo to Newcome at Christmas; and I daresay Ethel proposed to reform theyoung prodigal, if prodigal he was, for she busied herself delightedly inpreparing the apartments for their guests and putting off her visit tothis pleasant neighbour, or that pretty scene in the vicinity, until heruncle should come and they might enjoy the excursion together. And beforethe arrival of her relatives, Ethel, with one of her young brothers, wentto see Mrs. Mason and introduced herself as Colonel Newcome's niece, andcame back charmed with the old lady and eager once more in defence ofClive, for had she not seen the kindest letter which Clive had written toold Mrs. Mason, and the beautiful drawing of his father on horseback, andin regimentals, waving his sword in front of the gallant Bengal Cavalry, which the lad had sent down to the good old woman? He could not be verybad, Ethel thought, who was so kind and thoughtful for the poor. And theyoung lady went home quite fired with enthusiasm for her cousin, butencountered Barnes, who was more than usually bitter and sarcastic on thesubject. Ethel lost her temper, and then her firmness, while burstinginto tears she taxed Barnes with cruelty for uttering stories to hiscousin's disadvantage and for pursuing with constant slander one of thevery best of men. But notwithstanding her defence of the Colonel andClive, when they came to Newcome for the Christmas holidays, there was noEthel there. She had gone on a visit to her sick aunt. Colonel Newcomepassed the holidays sadly without her, and Clive consoled himself byknocking down pheasants with Sir Brian's keepers; and increased hiscousin's attachment for him by breaking the knees of Barnes's favouritemare out hunting. It was a dreary holiday; father and son were gladenough to get away from it, and to return to their own humbler quartersin London. 

Thomas Newcome had now been for three years in the possession of that joywhich his soul longed after, and yet in spite of his happiness, hishonest face grew more melancholy, his loose clothes hung only the looseron his lean limbs; he ate his meals without appetite; his nights wererestless and he would sit for hours silent, and was constantly findingbusiness which took him to distant quarters of England. Notwithstandingthis change in him the Colonel insisted that he was perfectly happy andcontented, but the truth was, his heart was aching with the knowledgethat Clive had occupations, ideas, associates, in which the elder couldtake no interest. Sitting in his blank, cheerless bedroom, Newcome couldhear the lad and his friends making merry and breaking out in roars oflaughter from time to time. The Colonel longed to share in the merriment, but he knew that the party would be hushed if he joined it, that theyounger men were happier and freer without him, and without laying anyblame upon them for this natural state of affairs, it saddened the daysand nights of our genial Colonel. 

Clive, meanwhile, passed through the course of study prescribed by Mr. Gandish and drew every cast and statue in that gentleman's studio. Grindley, his tutor, getting a curacy, Clive did not replace him, buttook a course of modern languages, which he learned with great rapidity. And now, being strong enough to paint without a master, Mr. Clive mustneeds have a studio, as there was no good light in the house in FitzroySquare. If his kind father felt any pang even at this temporary parting, he was greatly soothed and pleased by a little mark of attention onClive's part. He walked over with Colonel Newcome to see the new studio, with its tall centre window, and its curtains and hard wardrobes, chinajars, pieces of armour, and other artistic properties, and with a verysweet smile of kindness and affection lighting up his honest face, tookout a house-key and gave it to his father: "That's _your_ key, sir, " hesaid to the Colonel; "and you must be my first sitter, please, father;for, though I am to be a historical painter, I shall condescend to do afew portraits, you know. " The Colonel grasped his son's hand as Clivefondly put the other hand on his father's shoulder. Then Colonel Newcomewalked away for a minute or two, and came back wiping his moustache withhis handkerchief, and still holding the key in the other hand. He spokeabout some trivial subject when he returned; but his voice quitetrembled, his face glowed with love and pleasure, and the little act ofaffection compensated him for many weary hours of solitude. It is certainthat Clive worked much better after he had this apartment of his own, andmeals at home were gayer; and the rides with his father more frequent andagreeable. The Colonel used his key not infrequently, and found Clive andhis friend J. J. As a general thing absorbed in executing historicalsubjects on the largest possible canvases. Meanwhile Colonel Newcome waspreparing his mind to leave his idol, who he knew would be happy withoutas with him. During the three years since he had come from India theColonel had spent money lavishly and had also been obliged to pay dearlyfor some of Clive's boyish extravagances. At first, the Colonel hadthought he might retire from the army altogether, but experience showedhim that he could not live upon his income. He proposed now to return toIndia to get his promotion as full Colonel when the thousand a year towhich that would entitle him, together with his other investments, wouldbe ample for Clive and himself to live on. While the Colonel's thoughtswere absorbed in this matter his favourite Ethel was constantly away withher grandmother. The Colonel went to see her at Brighton, and once, twice, thrice, Lady Kew's door was denied to him. Once when the Colonelencountered his pretty Ethel with her riding master she greeted himaffectionately, but when he rode up to her she looked so constrained, when he talked about Clive she was so reserved, when he left her, so sad, he could only feel pain and regret. Back he went to London, having in aweek only caught this single glance of his darling, but filled withdetermination to have a frank talk with his sister-in-law, Lady Ann, andif possible to mend the family disagreement and turn the tide of LadyAnn's affection again towards his son. This he attempted to do, and wouldhave succeeded had not Barnes Newcome been the head of the house. As weknow, his opinion of Clive was not to that young man's advantage. Theseopinions were imparted to his Uncle Hobson at the bank, and Uncle Hobsoncarried them home to his wife, who took an early opportunity of repeatingthem to the Colonel, and the Colonel was brought to see that Barnes washis boy's enemy, and words very likely passed between them, for ThomasNewcome took a new banker at this time, and was very angry because HobsonBrothers wrote to him to say that he had overdrawn his account. "I amsure there is some screw loose, " remarked Clive to a friend, "and that myfather and the people in Park Lane have disagreed, because he goes therevery little now; and he promised to go to Court when Ethel was presentedand he didn't go. " This state of affairs between the members of theNewcome family continued for some months. Then, happily, a truce wasdeclared, the quarrel between the Newcome brothers came to an end--forthat time at least--and was followed by a rather showy reconciliation anda family dinner at Brianstone Square. Everybody was bent upon being happyand gracious. It was "My dear brother, how do you do?" from Sir Brian. "My dear Colonel, how glad we are to see you! How well you look!" fromLady Ann. Ethel Newcome ran to him with both hands out, an eager welcomeon her beautiful face. And even Lady Kew held out her hand to ColonelNewcome, saying briskly: "Colonel, it is an age since we met, " andturning to Clive with equal graciousness to say, "Mr. Clive, let me shakehands with you; I have heard all sorts of good of you, that you have beenpainting the most beautiful things, that you are going to be quitefamous. " There was no doubt about it, --it was an evening ofreconciliation on every side. 

Ethel was so happy to see her dear uncle that she had no eyes for anyone else, until Clive advancing, those bright eyes became brighter stillas she saw him; and as she looked she saw a very handsome fellow, forClive at that time was of the ornamental class of mankind--a customer totailors, a wearer of handsome rings, shirt studs, long hair, and thelike; nor could he help, in his costume or his nature, beingpicturesque, generous, and splendid. Silver dressing cases and brocademorning gowns were in him a sort of propriety at this season of hisyouth. It was a pleasure to persons of colder temperament to sunthemselves in the warmth of his bright looks and generous humour. Hislaughter cheered one like wine. I do not know that he was very witty;but he was pleasant. He was prone to blush; the history of a generoustrait moistened his eyes instantly. He was instinctively fond ofchildren and of the other sex from one year old to eighty. Coming fromthe Derby once and being stopped on the road in a lock of carriagesduring which the people in a carriage ahead saluted us with manyinsulting epithets, and seized the heads of our leaders, Clive in atwinkling jumped off the box, and the next minute we saw him engagedwith a half dozen of the enemy: his hat gone, his fair hair falling offhis face, his blue eyes flashing fire, his lips and nostrils quiveringwith wrath. His father sat back in the carriage looking on with delightand wonder while a policeman separated the warriors. Clive ascended thebox again, with his coat gashed from waist to shoulder. I hardly eversaw the elder Newcome in such a state of triumph. 

While we have been making this sketch of Clive, Ethel was standinglooking at him, and the blushing youth cast down his eyes before herswhile her face assumed a look of arch humour. And now let us have alikeness of Ethel. She was seventeen years old; rather taller than themajority of girls; her face somewhat grave and haughty, but on occasionbrightening with humour or beaming with kindliness and affection. Tooquick to detect affectation or insincerity in others, too impatient ofdulness or pomposity, she was more sarcastic now than she became whenafter-years of suffering had softened her nature. Truth looked out of herbright eyes, and rose up armed and flashed scorn or denial when sheencountered flattery or meanness or imposture. 

But those who had no cause to fear her keenness or her coldness admiredher beauty; nor could the famous Parisian model whom Clive said sheresembled be more perfect in form than this young lady. Her hair andeyebrows were jet black, but her complexion was dazzlingly fair and hercheeks as red as those belonging by right to a blonde. In her black hairthere was a slight natural ripple. Her eyes were grey; her mouth ratherlarge; her teeth were regular and white, her voice was low and sweet; andher smile, when it lighted up her face and eyes, as beautiful as springsunshine; also her eyes could lighten and flash often, and sometimes, though rarely, rain. As for her figure, the tall, slender form clad in asimple white muslin robe in which her fair arms were enveloped, and whichwas caught at her slim waist by a blue ribbon, let us make a respectfulbow to that fair image of youth, health, and modesty, and fancy it aspretty as we will. 

Not yet overshadowed by the cloud of Colonel Newcome's departure, light-hearted in the joy of reconciliation and meeting, once again fullof high spirits and mindful of no moment beyond the present, the twocousins never looked brighter or happier, and as Colonel Newcome gazedupon them in the freshness of their youth and vigour his heart was filledwith delight. 

Not many days after the dinner the good Colonel found it necessary tobreak the news of his intended departure to Clive. His resolution to gobeing taken, and having been obliged to dip somewhat deeply into thelittle purse he had set aside for European expenses to help a kinsman indistress, the Colonel's departure came somewhat sooner than he hadexpected. But, as he said, "A year sooner or later, what does it matter?Clive will go away and work at his art, and see the great schools ofpainting while I am absent. I thought at one time how pleasant it wouldbe to accompany him. I fancy now a lad is not the better for being alwaystied to his parents' apron-strings. You young fellows are too clever forme. I haven't learned your ideas or read your books. I feel myself veryoften an old damper in your company. I will go back, sir, where I havesome friends, and where I am somebody still. I know an honest face ortwo, white and brown, that will lighten up in the old regiment when theysee Tom Newcome again. "

With this resolution taken, the Colonel began saying farewell to hisfriends. He and Clive made a pilgrimage to Grey Friars; and the Colonelran down to Newcome to give Mrs. Mason a parting benediction; went to allthe boys' and girls' schools where his little protégés were, so as to beable to take the very latest account of the young folks to their parentsin India; and thence proceeded to Brighton to pass a little time withgood Miss Honeyman. With Sir Brian's family he parted on very good terms. I believe Sir Brian even accompanied him downstairs from the drawing-roomin Park Lane, and actually saw his brother into his cab, but as forEthel, _she_ was not going to be put off with this sort of parting; andthe next morning a cab dashed up to Fitzroy Square and she was closetedwith Colonel Newcome for five minutes, and when he led her back to thecarriage there were tears in his eyes. Then came the day when Clive andhis father travelled together to Southampton, where a group of theColonel's faithful friends were assembled to say a "God bless you" totheir dear old friend, and see the vessel sail. To the end Clive remainedwith his father and went below with him, and when the last bell wasringing, came from below looking very pale. The plank was drawn after himalmost as soon as he stepped on land, and the vessel had sailed. 

Although Thomas Newcome had gone back to India in search of more money, he was nevertheless rather a wealthy man and was able to leave a hundreda year in England to be transferred to his boy as soon as he came ofage. He also left a considerable annual sum to be paid to the boy, andso as soon as the parting was over and his affairs were settled, Clivewas free to start on his travels, to study art in new lands, accompaniedby his faithful friend J. J. They went first to Antwerp; thence toBrussels, and next Clive's correspondents received a letter from Bonn:in which Master Clive said, "And whom should I find here but Aunt Ann, Ethel, Miss Quigley and the little ones. Uncle Brian is staying at Aix, and, upon my conscience, I think my pretty cousin looks prettier everyday. J. J. And I were climbing a little hill which leads to a ruin, whenI heard a little voice cry, 'Hello! it's Clive! Hooray, Clive, ' and anass came down the incline with a little pair of white trousers at animmensely wide angle over the donkey's back, and there was little Alfredgrinning with all his might. 

"He turned his beast and was for galloping up the hill again, I supposeto inform his relations; but the donkey refused with many kicks, one ofwhich sent Alfred plunging amongst the stones, and we were rubbing himdown just as the rest of the party came upon us. Miss Quigley looked verygrim on an old white pony; my aunt was on a black horse that might haveturned grey, he is so old. Then came two donkeys-full of children, withKuhn as supercargo; then Ethel on donkey back, too, with a bunch of wildflowers in her hand, a great straw hat with a crimson ribbon, a whitemuslin jacket, you know, bound at the waist with a ribbon of the first, and a dark skirt, with a shawl round her feet, which Kuhn had arranged. As she stopped, the donkey fell to cropping greens in the hedge; thetrees there chequered her white dress and face with shadow. Her eyes, hair, and forehead were in shadow, too, but the light was all upon herright cheek. Upon her shoulder down to her arm, which was of a warmerwhite, and on the bunch of flowers which she held, blue, yellow, and redpoppies, and so forth. 

"J. J. Says, 'I think the birds began to sing louder when she came. ' Wehave both agreed that she is the handsomest woman in England. It's nother form merely, which is certainly as yet too thin and a little angular;it is her colour. I do not care for women or pictures without colour. Oh, ye carnations! Oh, such black hair and solemn eyebrows. It seems to methe roses and carnations have bloomed again since we saw them last inLondon, when they were drooping from the exposure to night air, candlelight, and heated ballrooms. 

"Here I was in the midst of a regiment of donkeys bearing a crowd ofrelations; J. J. Standing modestly in the background, beggars completingthe group. Throw in the Rhine in the distance flashing by the SevenMountains--but mind and make Ethel the principal figure: if you make herlike she certainly _will_ be, and other lights will be only minor fires. You may paint her form, but can't paint her colour. "

Thus wrote Clive from Bonn, and now that the old Countess and Barnes wereaway, the barrier between Clive and this family was withdrawn. The youngfolks who loved him were free to see him as often as he would come. Theywere going to Baden: would he come, too? He was glad enough to go withthem, and to travel in the orbit of such a lovely girl as Ethel Newcome, whose beauty made all the passengers on all the steamers look round andadmire. The journey was all sunshine and pleasure and novelty; and I liketo think of the pretty girl and the gallant young fellow enjoying thisholiday. Few sights are more pleasant than to watch a happy, manlyEnglish youth, freehanded and generous-hearted, content and good-humourshining in his honest face, pleased and pleasing, eager, active, andthankful for services, and exercising bravely his noble youthfulprivilege to be happy and to enjoy. As for J. J. , he, too, had his shareof enjoyment. Clive was still his hero as ever, his patron, his splendidyoung prince and chieftain. Who was so brave, who was so handsome, generous, witty as Clive? To hear Clive sing, as the lad would whilstthey were seated at their work, or driving along on this happy journey, through fair landscapes in the sunshine, gave J. J. The keenest pleasure;his wit was a little slow, but he would laugh with his eyes at Clive'ssallies, or ponder over them and explode with laughter presently, givinga new source of amusement to these merry travellers, and little Alfredwould laugh at J. J. 's laughing; and so, with a hundred harmless jokes toenliven, and the ever-changing, ever-charming smiles of Nature to cheerand accompany it, the happy day's journey would come to an end. 

So they travelled by the accustomed route to the prettiest town of allplaces where Pleasure has set up her tents, and there enjoyed themselvesto the fullest extent. 

Among Colonel Newcome's papers to which the family biographer has hadaccess, there are a couple of letters from Clive, dated Baden this time, and full of happiness, gaiety, and affection. Letter No. 1 says: "Ethelis the prettiest girl here. At the Assemblies all the princes, counts, dukes, etc. , are dying to dance with her. She sends her dearest love toher uncle. " By the side of the words "Prettiest girl" are written in afrank female hand the monosyllable "_stuff_"; and as a note to theexpression "dearest love, " with a star to mark the text and the note, aresqueezed in the same feminine characters at the bottom of Clive's pagethe words "_that I do_. E. N. "

In letter No. 2, Clive, after giving amusing details of life at Baden andthe company whom he met there, concludes with this: "Ethel is lookingover my shoulder. She thinks me such a delightful creature that she isnever easy without me. She bids me to say that I am the best of sons andcousins, and am, in a word, a darling du--" The rest of this importantword is not given, but "_goose_" is added in the female hand. 

Ethel takes up the pen. "My dear uncle, " she says, "while Clive issketching out of the window, let me write to you a line or two on hispaper, _though I know you like to hear no one speak_ but him. I wish Icould draw him for you as he stands yonder looking the picture of goodhealth, good spirits, and good-humour. Everybody likes him. He is quiteunaffected; always gay, always pleased, and he draws more beautifullyevery day. "

When these letters were received by the good Colonel in India we can wellimagine the joy that warmed his fond heart. He, himself, was comfortablysettled in the only place which would ever be home to him, --his son, theidol of his heart, was with Ethel, his darling. The objects of histenderest affection were gay, happy, together, and, best of all, thinkingof him. That he was not with them gave him no regrets; his love was toogreat for that. That their youth was soon to give place to the sobererexperiences of life, gave him no pang of fear for them. Reading theirletters, the Colonel was filled with quiet contentment; their future hecould trust to the care of that Guiding Hand to whom he had entrusted hisboy in childhood's earliest days. 

ARTHUR PENDENNIS

[Illustration: ARTHUR PENDENNIS AT FAIR-OAKS. ]

Early in the Regency of George the Magnificent there lived in a smalltown in the west of England, called Clavering, a gentleman whose name wasPendennis. At an earlier date Mr. Pendennis had exercised the professionof apothecary and surgeon, and had even condescended to sell a plasteracross the counter of his humble shop, or to vend tooth-brushes, hair-powder, and London perfumery. And yet that little apothecary was agentleman with good education, and of as old a family as any in thecounty of Somerset. He had a Cornish pedigree which carried thePendennises back to the time of the Druids. He had had a piece ofUniversity education, and might have pursued that career with honour, butin his second year at Oxford his father died insolvent, and he wasobliged to betake himself to the trade which he always detested. For sometime he had a hard struggle with poverty, but his manners were sogentleman-like and soothing that he was called in to prescribe for someof the ladies in the best families of Bath. Then his humble little shopbecame a smart one; then he shut it up altogether; then he had a gig witha man to drive in; and before she died his poor old mother had thehappiness of seeing her beloved son step into a close carriage of hisown; with the arms of the family of Pendennis handsomely emblazoned onthe panels. He married Miss Helen Thistlewood, a very distant relativeof the noble family of Bareacres, having met that young lady under LadyPentypool's roof. 

The secret ambition of Mr. Pendennis had always been to be a gentleman. By prudence and economy, his income was largely increased, and finally hesold his business for a handsome sum, and retired forever from handlingof the mortar and pestle, having purchased as a home the house ofFair-Oaks, nearly a mile out of Clavering. 

The estate was a beautiful one, and Arthur Pendennis, his son, being thenbut eight years of age, dated his earliest recollections from that place. 

Fair-Oaks lawn comes down to the little river Brawl, and on the otherside were the plantations and woods of Clavering Park. The park was letout in pasture when the Pendennises came first to live at Fair-Oaks. Shutters were up in the house; a splendid free stone palace, with greatstairs, statues and porticos. Sir Richard Clavering, Sir Francis'sgrandfather, had commenced the ruin of the family by the building of thispalace: his successor had achieved the ruin by living in it. The presentSir Francis was abroad somewhere, and until now nobody could be foundrich enough to rent that enormous mansion; through the deserted rooms, mouldy, clanking halls, and dismal galleries of which Arthur Pendennismany a time walked trembling when he was a boy. At sunset from the lawnof Fair-Oaks there was a pretty sight: it and the opposite park ofClavering were in the habit of putting on a rich golden tinge, whichbecame them both wonderfully. The upper windows of the great house flamedso as to make your eyes wink; the little river ran off noisily westwardand was lost in sombre wood, behind which the towers of the old abbeychurch of Clavering (whereby that town is called Clavering St. Mary's tothe present day) rose up in purple splendour. Little Arthur's figure andhis mother's cast long blue shadows over the grass: and he would repeatin a low voice (for a scene of great natural beauty always moved the boy, who inherited this sensibility from his mother) certain lines beginning, "These are thy glorious works. Parent of Good; Almighty! thine thisuniversal frame, " greatly to Mrs. Pendennis's delight. Such walks andconversation generally ended in a profusion of filial and maternalembraces; for to love and to pray were the main occupations of this dearwoman's life; and I have often heard Pendennis say in his wild way, thathe felt that he was sure of going to heaven, for his mother never couldbe happy there without him. 

As for John Pendennis, as the father of the family, and that sort ofthing, everybody had the greatest respect for him: and his orders wereobeyed like those of the Medes and Persians. His hat was as well brushedperhaps as that of any man in this empire. His meals were served at thesame minute every day, and woe to those who came late, as little Pen, adisorderly little rascal, sometimes did. Prayers were recited, hisletters were read, his business despatched, his stables and gardeninspected, his hen-houses and kennel, his barn and pig-sty visited, always at regular hours. After dinner he always had a nap with the Globenewspaper on his knee, and his yellow bandanna handkerchief on his face. And so, as his dinner took place at six o'clock to a minute, and thesunset business alluded to may be supposed to have occurred at half-pastseven, it is probable that he did not much care for the view in front ofhis lawn windows, or take any share in the poetry and caresses which weretaking place there. 

They seldom occurred in his presence. However frisky they were before, mother and child were hushed and quiet when Mr. Pendennis walked into thedrawing-room, his newspaper under his arm. And here, while little Pen, buried in a great chair, read all the books on which he could lay hold, the Squire perused his own articles in the Gardener's Gazette, or took asolemn hand at piquet with Mrs. Pendennis, or an occasional friend fromthe village. 

As for Mrs. Pendennis, she was conspicuous for her tranquil beauty, hernatural sweetness and kindness, and that simplicity and dignity whichpurity and innocence are sure to bestow upon a handsome woman, andduring her son's childhood and youth the boy thought of her as littleless than an angel, a supernatural being, all wisdom, love and beauty. But Mrs. Pendennis had one weakness, --pride of family. She spoke of Mr. Pendennis as if he had been the Pope of Rome on his throne, and she acardinal kneeling at his feet, and giving him incense. Mr. Pendennis'sbrother, the Major, she held to be a sort of Bayard among Majors, andas for her son Arthur, she worshipped that youth with an ardour whichthe young scapegrace accepted almost as coolly as the statue of thesaint in St. Peter's receives the rapturous kisses which the faithfuldeliver on his toe. 

Notwithstanding his mother's worship of him, Arthur Pendennis'sschool-fellows at the Grey Friars School state that as a boy he was in noway remarkable either as a dunce or as a scholar. He never read toimprove himself out of school-hours, but on the contrary devoured all thenovels, plays and poetry he could get hold of. He never was flogged, butit was a wonder how he escaped the whippingpost. When he had money hespent it royally in tarts for himself and his friends, and had been knownto disburse nine and sixpence out of ten shillings awarded to him in asingle day. When he had no funds he went on tick. When he could get nocredit he went without, and was almost as happy. He had been known totake a thrashing for a crony without saying a word; but a blow ever soslight from a friend would make him roar. To fighting he was averse fromhis earliest youth, and indeed to physic, the Greek Grammar, or any otherexertion, and would engage in none of them, except at the last extremity. He seldom if ever told lies, and never bullied little boys. Those mastersor seniors who were kind to him, he loved with boyish ardour. And thoughthe Doctor, when he did not know his Horace, or could not construe hisGreek play, said that that boy Pendennis was a disgrace to the school, acandidate for ruin in this world, and perdition in the next; a profligatewho would most likely bring his venerable father to ruin and his motherto a dishonoured grave, and the like--yet as the Doctor made use of thesecompliments to most of the boys in the place, little Pen, at first uneasyand terrified by these charges, became gradually accustomed to hear them;and he has not, in fact, either murdered his parents or committed any actworthy of transportation or hanging up to the present day. 

Thus with various diversions and occupations his school days passed untilhe was about sixteen years old, when he was suddenly called away from hisacademic studies. 

It was at the close of the forenoon school, and Pen had been unnoticedall the previous part of the morning till now, when the Doctor put him onto construe in a Greek play. He did not know a word of it, though littleTimmins, his form-fellow, was prompting him with all his might. Pen hadmade a sad blunder or two, when the awful chief broke out upon him. 

"Pendennis, sir, " he said, "your idleness is incorrigible and yourstupidity beyond example. You are a disgrace to your school, and to yourfamily, and I have no doubt will prove so in after-life to your country. If that vice, sir, which is described to us as the root of all evil, bereally what moralists have represented, what a prodigious quantity offuture crime and wickedness are you, unhappy boy, laying the seed!Miserable trifler! A boy, sir, who does not learn his Greek play cheatsthe parent who spends money for his education. A boy who cheats hisparent is not very far from robbing or forging upon his neighbour. A manwho forges on his neighbour pays the penalty of his crime at thegallows. And it is not such a one that I pity, for he will be deservedlycut off, but his maddened and heartbroken parents, who are driven to apremature grave by his crimes, or, if they live, drag on a wretched anddishonoured old age. Go on, sir, and I warn you that the very nextmistake that you make shall subject you to the punishment of the rod. Who's that laughing? What ill-conditioned boy is there that dares tolaugh?" shouted the Doctor. 

Indeed, while the master was making this oration, there was a generaltitter behind him in the schoolroom. The orator had his back to the doorof this ancient apartment, which was open, and a gentleman who was quitefamiliar with the place (for both Major Arthur, Pen's uncle, and Mr. JohnPendennis had been at the school) was asking the fifth-form boy who satby the door for Pendennis. The lad, grinning, pointed to the culpritagainst whom the Doctor was pouring out the thunders of his just wrath. Major Pendennis could not help laughing. He remembered having stood underthat very pillar where Pen the younger now stood, and having beenassaulted by the Doctor's predecessor years and years ago. Theintelligence was "passed round" in an instant that it was Pendennis'suncle, and a hundred young faces, wondering and giggling, between terrorand laughter, turned now to the newcomer and then to the awful Doctor. 

The Major asked the fifth-form boy to carry his card up to the Doctor, which the lad did with an arch look. Major Pendennis had written on thecard: "I must take A. P. Home; his father is very ill. "

As the Doctor received the card, and stopped his harangue with rather ascared look, the laughter of the boys, half constrained until then, burstout in a general shout. "Silence!" roared out the Doctor, stamping withhis foot. Pen looked up and saw who was his deliverer; the Major beckonedto him gravely, and, tumbling down his books, Pen went across. 

The Doctor took out his watch. It was two minutes to one. "We will takethe Juvenal at afternoon school, " he said, nodding to the Captain, andall the boys, understanding the signal, gathered up their books andpoured out of the hall. 

Young Pen saw by his uncle's face that something had happened at home. "Is there anything the matter with--my mother?" he said. He could hardlyspeak for emotion and the tears which were ready to start. 

"No, " said the Major, "but your father's very ill. Go and pack your trunkdirectly; I have got a post-chaise at the gate. "

Pen went off quickly to his boarding-house to do as his uncle bade him;and the Doctor, now left alone in the schoolroom, came out to shake handswith the Major. 

"There is nothing serious, I hope, " said the Doctor. "It is a pity totake the boy otherwise. He is a good boy, rather idle and unenergetic, but an honest, gentleman-like little fellow, though I can't get him toconstrue as I wish. Won't you come in and have some luncheon? My wifewill be very happy to see you. "

But Major Pendennis declined the luncheon. He said his brother was veryill, and had had a fit the day before, and it was a great question ifthey should see him alive. 

"There's no other son, is there?" said the Doctor. The Majoranswered "No. "

"And there's a good eh--a good eh--property, I believe?" asked the otherin an off-hand way. 

"H'm--so-so, " said the Major. Whereupon this colloquy came to an end. AndArthur Pendennis got into a post-chaise with his uncle, never to comeback to school any more. 

As the chaise drove through Clavering, the ostler standing whistlingunder the archway of the Clavering Arms winked to the postilionominously, as much as to say all was over. The gardener's wife came andopened the lodge-gates and let the travellers through with a silent shakeof the head. All the blinds were down at Fair-Oaks; and the face of theold footman was as blank when he let them in. Arthur's face was white, too, with terror more than with grief. Whatever of warmth and love thedeceased man might have had, and he adored his wife, and loved andadmired his son with all his heart, he had shut them up within himself;nor had the boy ever been able to penetrate that frigid outward barrier. 

A little girl, who was Mrs. Pendennis's adopted daughter, the child ofa dear old friend, peered for a moment under the blinds as the chaisecame up, opened the door from the stairs into the hall, and theretaking Arthur's hand silently as he stooped down to kiss her, led himupstairs to his mother. What passed between that lady and the boy isnot of import; a veil should be thrown over those sacred emotions oflove and grief. 

As for Arthur Pendennis, after that awful shock which the sight of hisdead father must have produced on him, and the pity and feeling whichsuch an event no doubt occasioned, I am not sure that in the very momentof the grief, and as he embraced his mother and tenderly consoled her andpromised to love her forever, there was not springing up in his breast asort of secret triumph and exultation. He was the chief now and lord. Hewas Pendennis; and all round about him were his servants and handmaids. 

"You'll never send me away, " little Laura said, tripping by him andholding his hand. "You won't send me to school, will you, Arthur?"

Arthur kissed her and patted her head. No, she shouldn't go to school. Asfor going himself that was quite out of the question. He had determinedthat his life should be all holidays for the future; that he wouldn't getup till he liked, or stand the bullying of the Doctor any more; and madea hundred such day-dreams and resolves for the future. Then in due timethey buried John Pendennis, Esquire, in the Abbey Church of Clavering St. Mary's, and Arthur Pendennis reigned in his stead. 

Arthur was about sixteen years old when he began to reign; in person hehad what his friends would call a dumpy, but his mamma styled, a neatlittle figure. His hair was of a healthy brown colour, which looked likegold in the sunshine. His face was round, rosy, freckled, andgood-humoured. In fact, without being a beauty, he had such a frank, good-natured, kind face and laughed so merrily at you out of his honestblue eyes that no wonder Mrs. Pendennis thought him the pride of thewhole country. You may be certain he never went back to school; thediscipline of the establishment did not suit him, and he liked being athome much better. The question of his return was debated, and his unclewas for his going back. The Doctor wrote his opinion that it was mostimportant for Arthur's success in after life that he should know a Greekplay thoroughly, but Pen adroitly managed to hint to his mother what adangerous place Grey Friars was, and what sad wild fellows some of thechaps there were, and the timid soul, taking alarm at once, acceded tohis desire to stay at home. 

Then Pen's uncle offered to use his influence with his Royal Highness, the Commander-in-Chief, to get Pen a commission in the Foot Guards. Pen'sheart leaped at this: he had been to hear the band at St. James's play ona Sunday, when he went out to his uncle. He had seen Tom Ricketts, of thefourth form, who used to wear a jacket and trousers so ludicrously tightthat the elder boys could not forbear using him in the quality of a buttor "cockshy"--he had seen this very Ricketts arrayed in crimson and gold, with an immense bearskin cap on his head, staggering under the colours ofthe regiment. Tom had recognised him and gave him a patronising nod--Tom, a little wretch whom he had cut over the back with a hockey-stick lastquarter, and there he was in the centre of the square, rallying round theflag of his county, surrounded by bayonets, cross-belts, and scarlet, theband blowing trumpets and banging cymbals--talking familiarly to immensewarriors with tufts to their chins and Waterloo medals. What would notPen have given to enter such a service?

But Helen Pendennis, when this point was proposed to her by her son, puton a face full of terror and alarm, and confessed that she should be veryunhappy if he thought of entering the army. Now Pen would as soon havecut off his nose and ears as deliberately and of malice aforethought havemade his mother unhappy; and as he was of such a generous dispositionthat he would give away anything to any one, he instantly made a presentof his visionary red coat and epaulettes to his mother. 

She thought him the noblest creature in the world. But Major Pendennis, when the offer of the commission was acknowledged and refused, wrote backa curt and somewhat angry letter to the widow, and thought his nephew wasrather a spooney. 

He was contented, however, when he saw the boy's performances out huntingat Christmas, when the Major came down as usual to Fair-Oaks. Pen had avery good mare, and rode her with uncommon pluck and grace. He took hisfences with great coolness and judgment. He wrote to the chaps at schoolabout his topboots, and his feats across country. He began to thinkseriously of a scarlet coat: and his mother must own that she thought itwould become him remarkably well; though, of course, she passed hours ofanguish during his absence, and daily expected to see him brought home ona shutter. 

With these amusements, in rather too great plenty, it must not be assumedthat Pen neglected his studies altogether. He had a natural taste forreading every possible kind of book which did _not_ fall into his schoolcourse. It was only when they forced his head into the waters ofknowledge that he refused to drink. He devoured all the books at home andransacked the neighbouring book-cases. He found at Clavering an old cargoof French novels which he read with all his might; and he would sit forhours perched on the topmost bar of Dr. Portman's library steps with anold folio on his knees. 

Mr. Smirke, Dr. Portman's curate, was engaged at a liberal salary to passseveral hours daily with the young gentleman. He was a decent scholar andmathematician, and taught Pen as much as the lad was ever disposed tolearn, which was not much. Pen soon took the measure of his tutor, who, when he came riding into the court-yard at Fair-Oaks on his pony, turnedout his toes so absurdly, and left such a gap between his knees and thesaddle, that it was impossible for any lad endowed with a sense of humourto respect such a rider. He nearly killed Smirke with terror by puttinghim on his mare, and taking him a ride over a common where the countyfox-hounds happened to meet. 

Smirke and his pupil read the ancient poets together, and rattled throughthem at a pleasant rate, very different from that steady grubbing pacewith which he was obliged to go over the _classis_ ground at Grey Friars, scenting out each word and digging up every root in the way. Pen neverliked to halt, but made his tutor construe when he was at fault, and thusgalloped through the Iliad and the Odyssey and the charming, wickedAristophanes. But he went so fast that though he certainly gallopedthrough a considerable extent of the ancient country, he clean forgot itin after life. Besides the ancient poets, Pen read the English with greatgusto. Smirke sighed and shook his head sadly both about Byron and Moore. But Pen was a sworn fire-worshipper and a corsair; he had them by heart, and used to take little Laura into the window and say, "Zuleika, I am notthy brother, " in tones so tragic that they caused the solemn little maidto open her great eyes still wider. She sat sewing at Mrs. Pendennis'sknee, listening to Pen reading to her without understanding one word ofwhat he said. 

He read Shakespeare to his mother, and Byron and Pope, and his favourite"Lalla Rookh" and Bishop Heber and Mrs. Hemans, and about this period ofhis existence began to write verses of his own. He broke out in thepoet's corner of the County Chronicle with some verses with which he wasperfectly well satisfied. His are the verses signed NEP addressed "To aTear, " "On the Anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, " "On St. Bartholomew's Day, " etc. , etc. , all of which masterpieces Mrs. Pendenniskept along with his first socks, the first cutting of his hair, hisbottle and other interesting relics of his infancy. His genius at thistime was of a decidedly gloomy cast. He brought his mother a tragedy inwhich, though he killed sixteen people before the second act, she laughedso that he thrust the masterpiece into the fire in a pet. He alsoprojected an epic poem in blank verse, and several other classical piecesof a gloomy character, and was altogether of an intense and sentimentalturn of mind quite in contrast with his practical and merry appearance. The sentimental side of his nature, fed by the productions of hisfavourite poets and fanned by the romantic temperament of his tutor, soonfound an object to kindle the spark into a blaze, and a most unfortunateblaze for Pen. 

While Mrs. Pendennis was planning her son's career and had not yetsettled in her mind whether he was to be Senior Wrangler and Archbishopof Canterbury, or Double First Class at Oxford and Lord Chancellor, youngPen himself was starting out on quite a different career, which seemeddestined to lead him in the opposite direction from that of his mother'sday-dreams, who had made up her mind that in time he was to marry littleLaura, settle in London and astonish that city by his learning andeloquence at the Bar; or, better still, in a sweet country parsonagesurrounded by hollyhocks and roses close to a delightful, romantic, ivy-covered church, from the pulpit of which Pen would utter the mostbeautiful sermons ever preached. 

While these plans and decisions were occupying his mother's thoughts, Pen was getting into mischief. One day he rode into Chatteris to carry tothe County Chronicle a thrilling poem for the next week's paper; andwhile putting up his horse at the stables at the George hotel, he fell inwith an old school-fellow, Mr. Foker, who after a desultory conversationwith Pen strolled down High Street with him, and persuaded him not onlyto dine at the George with him, but to accompany him later to thetheatre. Mr. Foker, who was something of a sport, was acquainted with thetroupe who were then acting at that theatre, and the entire atmospherewas so new and exciting to Pen that his emotional nature, which had beenwaiting for many months for a sensational thrill, responded at once tothe idea; and later on to the applause of pit and gallery, and to thepersonal magnetism of the heroine of the play, one Miss Fotheringay. 

To Miss Fotheringay's attractions, natural and artificial, Pen respondedat once, and sat in breathless enchanted silence through all theconversations and melodramatic situations of the mediocre performance. When the curtain went down he felt that he now had a subject to inspirehis Muse forever. He quitted the theatre in a state of intenseexcitement, and rode homeward in a state of numb ecstasy. Notwithstandinghis sentimental mood, Pen was so normal in mind and body that he slept assoundly as ever, but when he awoke he felt himself to be many years olderthan yesterday. He dressed himself in some of his finest clothes, andcame down to breakfast, patronising his mother and little Laura, whowondered at his grand appearance, and asked him to tell her what the playwas about. 

Pen laughed and declined to tell her. Then she asked him why he had goton his fine pin and beautiful new waistcoat?

Pen blushed and said that Mr. Foker was reading with a tutor atBaymouth, a very learned man; and as he was himself to go to college hewas anxious to ride over--and--just see what their course of readingwas. The truth was Pen had resolved that he must see Foker that morningand find out all that was possible concerning the object of his lastnight's enthusiasm; and soon after breakfast he was on his horsegalloping away towards Baymouth like a madman. 

From that time the lad's chief object in life was visiting the theatre, or Miss Fotheringay herself, to whom he had speedily received anintroduction; and although she was a young woman not at all conversantwith the social side of life with which he was familiar, she wasnevertheless fascinating to Pen, who saw her always in the glamour oflime lights and applause. It was not long before Mrs. Pendennisdiscovered the lad's new interest, which naturally disquieted her. Finally, however, for reasons of her own, she assented to Pen'ssuggestion that Miss Fotheringay was to appear as Ophelia in a benefitperformance. 

"Suppose we were to go--Shakespeare, you know, mother. We can get horsesfrom the Clavering Arms, " he said. Little Laura sprang up with delight;she longed for a play. The mother was delighted that Pen should suggesttheir going, and in her good-humour asked Mr. Smirke to be one of theparty. They arrived at the theatre ahead of time, and were cordiallysaluted by Mr. Foker and a friend, who sat in a box near theirs. Theyoung fellows saluted Pen cordially, and examined his party withapproval; for little Laura was a pretty red-cheeked girl with a quantityof shining brown ringlets, and Mrs. Pendennis, dressed in black velvet, with a diamond cross which she wore on great occasions, looked uncommonlyhandsome and majestic. 

"Who is that odd-looking person bowing to you, Arthur?" Mrs. Pendennisasked of her son, after a critical examination of the audience. 

Pen blushed a great deal. "His name is Captain Costigan, ma'am, " he said, "a Peninsular officer. " Pen did not volunteer anything more; and how wasMrs. Pendennis to know that Mr. Costigan was the father of MissFotheringay?

We have nothing to do with the play except to say that Ophelia lookedlovely, and performed with admirable wild pathos, laughing, weeping, gazing wildly, waving her beautiful white arms and flinging about hersnatches of flowers and songs with the most charming madness. What anopportunity her splendid black hair had of tossing over her shoulders!She made the most charming corpse ever seen, and while Hamlet and Laerteswere battling in her grave she was looking out from the back scenes withsome curiosity towards Pen's box, and the family party assembled in it. 

There was but one voice in her praise there. Mrs. Pendennis was inecstasies with her beauty. Little Laura was bewildered by the piece andthe Ghost, and the play within the play, but cried out great praises ofthat beautiful young creature, Ophelia. Pen was charmed with the effectwhich she produced on his mother, and the clergyman on his part wasexceedingly enthusiastic. 

When the curtain fell upon that group of slaughtered personages who aredespatched so suddenly at the end of "Hamlet, " and whose death astonishedpoor little Laura, there was an immense shouting and applause from allquarters of the house. There was a roar of bravoes rang through thehouse; Pen bellowing with the loudest. "Fotheringay! Fotheringay!" EvenMrs. Pendennis began to wave about her pocket-handkerchief, and littleLaura danced, laughed, clapped, and looked up at Pen with wonder. 

If Pen had been alone with his mother in the carriage as they drove homethat night he would have told her the extent of his devotion for MissFotheringay, but he had no chance to do so, and it remained for that goodlady to hear of her boy's intimacy with the actress from good Dr. Portman, who, on the following evening, happening to see Pen in MissFotheringay's company and much absorbed by her charms, lost no time inhurrying to Mrs. Pendennis with the news. Now, although Mrs. Pendennishad been wise enough to appreciate Pen's infatuation, she had looked uponit as the merest boyish fancy, induced by the glamour of the stage, anddid not dream that there was a personal intimacy behind it. She heard Dr. Portman's statement in horrified silence, and before she slept that nighthad despatched letters to Major Pendennis demanding his immediate returnfrom London to help her in the management of her son at this criticalpoint in his youthful career. 

Although loath to leave London, Major Pendennis straightway came toFair-Oaks. He came; he saw the situation at a glance; and after aprolonged conversation with Mrs. Pendennis he summoned Pen himself. Thatyoung man having strung up his nerves, and prepared himself for theencounter, determined to face the awful uncle, with all the courage anddignity of the famous family which he represented. He marched into MajorPendennis's presence with a most severe and warlike expression, as if tosay, "Come on, I am ready. "

The old man of the world, as he surveyed the boy's demeanour, couldhardly help a grin at his admirable pompous simplicity, and having ashrewd notion that threats and tragic exaltations would have no effectupon the boy, said with the most good-humoured smile in the world, ashe shook Pen's passive fingers gaily: "Well, Pen, my boy, tell us allabout it!"

Helen was delighted with the generosity of the Major's good-humour. Onthe contrary, it quite took aback and disappointed poor Pen, whose nerveswere strung up for a tragedy, and who felt that his grand entrance wasaltogether balked and ludicrous. He blushed and winced with mortifiedvanity and bewilderment. He felt immensely inclined to begin to cry. "I--I didn't know you were come till just now, " he said; "is--is--townvery full, I suppose?"

If Pen could hardly gulp his tears down it was all the Major could do tokeep from laughter. He turned round and shot a comical glance at Mrs. Pendennis, who, too, felt that the scene was at once ridiculous andsentimental. And so, having nothing to say, she went up and kissed Mr. Pen, while the Major said: "Come, come, Pen, my good fellow, tell us thewhole story. "

Pen got back at once to his tragic and heroical air while he told thestory of his devotion to the charming Miss Fotheringay, to which theMajor gave quiet attention, and then asked many practical questions, andmade so many remarks of a worldly-wise nature that the boy was obliged togive in and acknowledge the sound wisdom of them, and also before theinterview was over he gave his mother a promise that he would never doanything which would bring shame upon the family; which promise given, the Major could contain his gravity at the situation no longer, but burstinto a fit of laughter so infectious that Pen was obliged to join in it. This sent them with great good-humour into Mrs. Pendennis's drawing-room, and she was pleased to hear the Major and Pen laughing together as theywalked across the hall with the Major's arm laid gayly on Pen'sshoulder. The pair came to the tea-table in the highest spirits. TheMajor's politeness was beyond expression. He was secretly delighted withhimself that he had been able to win such a victory over the youngfellow's feelings. He had never tasted such good tea, and such bread wasonly to be had in the country. He asked Mrs. Pendennis for one of hercharming songs. He then made Pen sing, and was delighted at the beauty ofthe boy's voice; he made his nephew fetch his maps and drawings, andpraised them as really remarkable works of talent in a young fellow; hecomplimented him on his French pronunciation. He flattered the simple boyto the extent of his ability, and when bedtime came mother and son wentto their rooms perfectly enchanted with him. 

Unwilling to leave his work half done, the Major remained at Fair-Oaksfor some time that he might watch his nephew's actions. Pen never rodeover to Chatteris but that the Major found out on what errand the boyhad been. Faithful to his plan, he gave his nephew no hindrance. Yetsomehow the constant feeling that his uncle's eye was upon him made Pengo less frequently to sigh away his soul at the feet of his charmer thanhe had done before his uncle's arrival. But even so, and despite Pen'spromise to his mother, the Major felt that if he were to succeed inpermanently curing the lad of his interest in the actress, it would bewell to have more help in achieving it. In pursuance of this aim, theMajor went to Chatteris himself privately, sought out the actress'sfather, and presented to him the practical facts of his nephew's extremeyouth and lack of money, as hindrances to his devotion going further. After a rather heated argument with Captain Costigan, that gentleman wasmade to understand the situation, and finally gave his promise so topresent the case to his daughter, that she should herself write aletter to Pen setting forth her firm determination to have no moreintercourse with him. 

Captain Costigan was as good as his word, and his letter to Pen was sentimmediately. A few lines from Miss Costigan were enclosed. She agreed inthe decision of her papa, pointed out several reasons why they shouldmeet no more, and thanked him for his kindness and friendship. 

Major Pendennis had won a complete victory, and his secret delightat having rescued Pen from an unwise attachment was only equalled byhis regret at the real suffering he was obliged to allow the lad togo through. 

After receiving the letter Pen rushed wildly off to Chatteris; but invain attempted to see Miss Fotheringay, for whom he left a letterenclosed to her father. The enclosure was returned by Mr. Costigan, whobegged that all correspondence might end; and after one or two furtherattempts of the lad's, Captain Costigan insisted that theiracquaintance should cease. He cut Pen in the street. As Arthur andFoker were pacing the street one day they came upon the daughter on herfather's arm. She passed without any nod of recognition. Foker feltpoor Pen trembling on his arm. 

His uncle wanted him to travel, and his mother urged him, too, for he wasin a state of restless unhappiness. But he said point blank he would notgo, and his mother was too fond, and his uncle too wise, to force him. Whenever Miss Fotheringay acted, he rode over to the Chatteris theatreand saw her; and between times found the life at Fair-Oaks extremelydreary and uninteresting. He sometimes played backgammon with his mother, or took dinner with Dr. Portman or some other neighbour; these were thechief of his pleasures; or he would listen to his mother's simple musicof summer evenings. But he was very restless and wretched in spite ofall. By the pond and under a tree, which was his favourite resort inmoods of depression, Pen, at that time, composed a number of poemssuitable to his misery--over which verses he blushed in after days, wondering how he could have ever invented such rubbish. He had his hotand cold fits, his days of sullenness and peevishness, and occasional madparoxysms of rage and longing, in which fits his horse would be saddledand galloped fiercely about the country, bringing him back in such astate of despair as brought much worry to his mother and the Major. Infact, Pen's attitude towards life and his actions at that time were sounlike what they should have been at his age that his proceedingstortured his mother not a little, and her anxiety would have led heroften to interfere with Pen's doings had not the Major constantly checkedher; fancying that he saw a favourable turn in Pen's malady, which wasshown by a violent attack of writing verses; also spouting them as he satwith the home party of evenings; and one day the Major found a greatbookful of original verses in the lad's study. Also he discovered thatthe young gentleman had a very creditable appetite for his meals, andslept soundly at night. From these symptoms the Major argued that Pen wasleaving behind him his infatuation. 

Dr. Portman was of the opinion that Pen should go to college. He thoughtthe time had come for the boy to leave his old surroundings, and, besidesstudy, have a moderate amount of the best society, too. Pen, who wasthoroughly out of harmony with his present surroundings, gloomily said hewould go, and in consequence of this decision not many weeks later thewidow and Laura nervously set about filling trunks with his books, andlinen, and making all necessary preparation for his departure, writingcards with the name of Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, which were duly nailedon the boxes; at which both the widow and Laura looked with tearful eyes. 

A night soon came when the coach, with echoing horn and blazing lamps, stopped at the lodge gate of Fair-Oaks, and Pen's trunks and his Uncle'swere placed on the roof of the carriage, into which the pair presentlyafterwards entered. Mrs. Pendennis and Laura were standing by theevergreens of the shrubbery, their figures lighted up by the coach lamps. The guard cried "All right"; in another instant the carriage whirledonward; the lights disappeared, and his mother's heart and prayers wentwith them. Her sainted benedictions followed the departing boy. He hadleft the home-nest in which he had been chafing; eager to go forth andtry his restless wings. 

How lonely the house was without him! The corded trunks and book-boxeswere there in his empty study. Laura asked leave to come and sleep inher aunt's room: and when she cried herself to sleep there, the motherwent softly into Pen's vacant chamber, and knelt down by the bed onwhich the moon shone, and there prayed for her boy, as mothers only knowhow to plead. 

Pen passed a few days at the Major's lodgings in London, of which hewrote a droll account to his dearest mother; and she and Laura read thatletter, and those which followed, many, many times, and brooded overthem, while Pen and the Major were arriving at Oxbridge; and Pen wasbecoming acquainted with his surroundings. The boxes that his mother hadpacked with so much care arrived in a few days. Pen was touched as heread the cards in the dear well-known hand, and as he arranged in theirplaces all the books, and all the linen and table-cloths which Helen hadselected for him from the family stock, and all the hundred simple giftsof home. Then came the Major's leave-taking, and truth to tell our friendPen was not sorry when he was left alone to enter upon his new career, and we may be sure that the Major on his part was very glad to have donehis duty by Pen, and to have finished that irksome work. Having left Penin the company of Harry Foker, who would introduce him to the best set atthe University, the Major rushed off to London and again took up hisaccustomed life. 

We are not about to go through young Pen's academical career veryminutely. During the first term of his university life he attendedlectures with tolerable regularity, but soon discovering that he hadlittle taste for pursuing the exact sciences, he gave up his attendanceat that course and announced that he proposed to devote himselfexclusively to Greek and Roman Literature. 

Mrs. Pendennis was for her part quite satisfied that her darling boyshould pursue that branch of learning for which he had the greatestinclination; and only besought him not to ruin his health by too muchstudy, for she had heard the most melancholy stories of young studentswho by overfatigue had brought on brain-fevers, and perished untimely inthe midst of their university career. Pen's health, which was alwaysdelicate, was to be regarded, as she justly said, beyond allconsiderations or vain honours. Pen, although not aware of any lurkingdisease which was likely to endanger his life, yet kindly promised hismamma not to sit up reading too late of nights, and stuck to his word inthis respect with a great deal more tenacity of resolution than heexhibited upon some other occasions, when perhaps he was a little remiss. 

Presently he began to find that he learned little good in the classicallecture. His fellow-students there were too dull, as in mathematics theywere too learned for him. Pen grew weary of hearing the students andtutor blunder through a few lines of a play which he could read in atenth part of the time which they gave to it. After all, private reading, he decided, was the only study which was really profitable, and heannounced to his mamma that he should read by himself a great deal moreand in public a great deal less. That excellent woman knew no more aboutHomer than she did about Algebra, but she was quite contented with Pen'sarrangements regarding his course of study, and felt perfectly confidentthat her dear boy would get the place which he merited. 

Pen did not come home until after Christmas, a little to the fondmother's disappointment, and Laura's, who was longing for him to make afine snow fortification, such as he had made three winters before. But hewas invited to Logwood, Lady Agnes Foker's, where there were privatetheatricals, and a gay Christmas party of very fine folks, some of whomMajor Pendennis would on no account have his nephew neglect. However, hestayed at home for the last three weeks of the vacation, and Laura hadthe opportunity of remarking what a quantity of fine new clothes hebrought with him, and his mother admired his improved appearance andmanly and decided tone. 

He had not come home at Easter; but when he arrived for the long vacationhe brought more smart clothes; appearing in the morning in wonderfulshooting-jackets, with remarkable buttons; and in the evening in gorgeousvelvet waistcoats, with richly embroidered cravats, and curious linen. And as she pried about his room, she saw, oh, such a beautifuldressing-case, with silver mountings, and a quantity of lovely rings andjewellery. And he had a new French watch and gold chain, in place of thebig old chronometer, with its bunch of jingling seals, which had hungfrom the fob of John Pendennis. It was but a few months back Pen hadlonged for this watch, which he thought the most splendid and augusttime-piece in the world; and just before he went to college, Helen hadtaken it out of her trinket box and given it to Pen with a solemn andappropriate little speech respecting his father's virtues and the properuse of time. This portly and valuable chronometer Pen now pronounced tobe out of date, and indeed made some comparisons between it and awarming-pan, which Laura thought disrespectful; and he left it in adrawer in the company of soiled primrose gloves and cravats which hadgone out of favour. His horse Pen pronounced no longer up to his weight, and swapped her for another for which he had to pay rather a heavyfigure. Mrs. Pendennis gave the boy the money for the new horse, andLaura cried when the old one was fetched away. 

Arthur's allowances were liberal at this time, and thus he, the only sonof a country gentleman, and of a gentleman-like bearing and person, waslooked up to as a lad of much more consequence than he really was. Hismanner was frank, brave and perhaps a little impertinent, as becomes ahigh-spirited youth. He was generous and freehanded with his money, lovedjoviality, and had a good voice for a song. He rode well to hounds, appeared in pink as became a young buck, and managed to run up fine billsin a number of quarters. In fact, he had almost every taste to aconsiderable degree. He was very fond of books of all sorts and had avery fair taste in matters of art; also a great partiality for fineclothes and expensive jewellery. 

In the course of his second year he had become one of the men of fashionin the University, and a leader of the faithful band who hung around himand wondered at him and loved him and imitated him. Now, it is easy tocalculate that with such tastes as Mr. Pen possessed he must in thecourse of two or three years spend or owe a very handsome sum of money. As he was not of a calculating turn he certainly found himself frequentlyin debt, but this did not affect his gaiety of spirit. He got aprodigious in the University and was hailed as a sort of Crichton: and asfor the English verse prize, although Jones carried it that year, theundergraduates thought Pen's a much finer poem, and he had his versesprinted at his own expense, and distributed in gilt morocco coversamongst his acquaintance. 

Amidst his friends, and a host of them there were, Pen passed more thantwo brilliant and happy years. He had his fill of pleasure andpopularity. No dinner or supper party was complete without him. He becamethe favourite and leader of young men who were his superiors in wealthand station, but also did not neglect the humblest man of hisacquaintance in order to curry favour with the richest young grandee inthe University. He became famous and popular: not that he did much, butthere was a general idea that he could do a great deal if he chose. "Ah, if Pendennis would only _try_" the men said, "he might do anything. " Oneby one the University honours were lost by him, until he ceased tocompete. But he got a declamation prize and brought home to his motherand Laura a set of prize books begilt with the college arms, and somagnificent that the ladies thought that Pen had won the largest honourwhich Oxbridge was capable of awarding. 

Vacation after vacation passed without the desired news that Pen had satfor any scholarship or won any honour, and Pen grew rebellious andunhappy, and there was a tacit feud between Dr. Portman, who wasdisappointed in Arthur, and the lad himself. Mrs. Pendennis, hearing Dr. Portman prophesy that Pen would come to ruin, trembled in her heart, andlittle Laura also--Laura who had grown to be a fine young stripling, graceful and fair, clinging to her adopted mother and worshipping herwith a passionate affection. Both of these women felt that their boy waschanged. He was no longer the artless Pen of old days, so brave, soimpetuous, so tender. He spent little of his vacations at home, but wenton visits, and scared the quiet pair at Fair-Oaks by stories of greathouses to which he had been invited, and by talking of lords withouttheir titles. 

But even with all his weaknesses there was a kindness and frankness aboutArthur Pendennis which won most people who came in contact with him, andmade it impossible to resist his good-nature, or in his worst moments notto hope for his rescue from utter ruin. At the time of his career ofuniversity pleasure he would leave the gayest party to sit with a sickfriend and was only too ready to share any money which he had with apoorer one. 

In his third year at college the duns began to gather awfully round abouthim, and descended upon him in such a number that the tutors werescandalised, and even brave-hearted Pen was scared. Hearing of hisnephew's extravagances, Major Pendennis interviewed that young man, andwas thunderstruck at the extent of his liabilities after receiving Pen'sdismal confession of the trouble in which he was involved. 

Perhaps it was because she was so tender and good that Pen was terrifiedlest his mother should know of his sins. "I can't bear to break it toher, " he said to the tutor, in an agony of grief. "Oh! sir, I've been avillain to her!"

--and he repented, and asked himself, Why, why, did his uncle insistupon the necessity of living with great people, and in how much did allhis grand acquaintance profit him?

They were not shy of him, but Pen thought they were, and slunk from themduring his last terms at college. He was as gloomy as a death's-head atparties, which he avoided of his own part, or to which his young friendssoon ceased to invite him. Everybody knew that Pendennis was "hard up. "

At last came the Degree Examinations. Many a young man of his year, whosehob-nailed shoes Pen had derided, and whose face or coat he hadcaricatured, many a man whom he had treated with scorn in thelecture-room or crushed with his eloquence in the debating club, many ofhis own set who had not half his brains, but a little regularity andconstancy of occupation, took high places in the honours or passed withindecent credit. And where in the list was Pen, the superb; Pen, the witand dandy; Pen, the poet and orator? Ah, where was Pen, the widow'sdarling and sole pride? Let us hide our heads and shut up the page. Thelists came out; and a dreadful rumour rushed through the University, thatPendennis of Boniface was plucked. 

During the latter part of Pen's university career the Major had becomevery proud of Arthur on account of his high spirits, frank manners, andhigh, gentleman-like bearing. He made more than one visit to Oxbridge andhad an almost paternal fondness for Pen, whom he bragged about at hisclubs, and introduced with pleasure into his conversation. He boastedeverywhere of the boy's great talents and of the brilliant degree he wasgoing to take as he wrote over and over again to Pen's mother, who forher part was ready to believe anything that anybody chose to say infavour of her son. 

And all this pride and affection of uncle and mother had been trampleddown by Pen's wicked extravagance and idleness. I don't envy Pen'sfeelings as he thought of what he had done. He had marred at its outsetwhat might have been a brilliant career. He had dipped ungenerously intoa generous mother's purse, and basely and recklessly spent her littleincome. Poor Arthur Pendennis felt perfectly convinced that all Englandwould remark the absence of his name from the examination lists and talkabout his misfortune. His wounded tutor, his many duns, theundergraduates--how could he bear to look any of them in the face now?After receiving the news of his disgrace he rushed to his rooms and therepenned a letter to his tutor full of thanks, regards, remorse anddespair, requesting that his name might be taken off the college books, and intimating a wish that death might speedily end the woes of thedisgraced Arthur Pendennis. Then he slunk out, scarcely knowing where hewent, taking the unfrequented little lanes at the backs of the collegebuildings until he found himself some miles distant from Oxbridge. As hewent up a hill, a drizzling January rain beating in his face and hisragged gown flying behind him, for he had not taken it off since themorning, a post-chaise came rattling up the road with a young gentlemanin it who caught sight of poor Pen's pale face, jumped out of thecarriage and ran towards him, exclaiming, "I say, --Hello, old boy, whereare you going, and what's the row now?"

"I am going where I deserve to go, " said Pen. 

"This ain't the way, " said his friend Spavin, smiling. "I say, Pen, don'ttake on because you are plucked. It is nothing when you are used to it. I've been plucked three times, old boy, and after the first time Ididn't care. You'll have better luck next time. "

Pen looked at his early acquaintance who had been plucked, who had beenrusticated, who had only after repeated failures learned to read andwrite correctly, but who, in spite of all these drawbacks had attainedthe honour of a degree. 

"This man has passed, " he thought, "and I have failed. " It was almost toomuch for him to bear. 

"Good-bye, " said he; "I am very glad you are through. Don't let me keepyou. I am in a hurry--I am going to town to-night. "

"Gammon!" said his friend, "this ain't the way to town; this is theFenbury road, I tell you. "

"I was just going to turn back, " Pen said. 

"All the coaches are full with the men going down, " Spavin said. Penwinced. "You'd not get a place for a ten-pound note. Get in here. I'lldrop you where you have a chance of the Fenbury mail. I'll lend you a hatand coat; I've got lots. Come along; jump in, old boy--go it, leathers!"

And in this way Pen found himself in Mr. Spavin's post-chaise and rodewith that gentleman as far as the Ram Inn at Mudford, fifteen miles fromOxbridge, where the Fenbury mail changed horses, and where Pen got aplace on to London. 

The next day there was an immense excitement at Oxbridge, where, for sometime, a rumour prevailed, to the terror of Pen's tutor and tradesmen, that Pendennis, maddened at losing his degree, had made away withhimself. A battered cap, in which his name was almost discernible, together with a seal bearing his crest of an eagle looking at a nowextinct sun, had been found three miles on the Fenbury road, near a millstream; and for four-and-twenty hours it was supposed that poor Pen hadflung himself into the stream, until letters arrived from him, bearingthe London post-mark. 

The coach reached London at the dreary hour of five; and he hastened tothe inn at Covent Garden, where the ever-wakeful porter admitted him, andshowed him to a bed. Pen looked hard at the man, and wondered whetherBoots knew he was plucked? When in bed he could not sleep there. Hetossed about restlessly until the appearance of daylight, when he sprangup desperately, and walked off to his uncle's lodgings in Bury Street. 

"Good 'evens! Mr. Arthur, what 'as 'appened, sir?" asked the valet, whowas just carrying in his wig to the Major. 

"I want to see my uncle, " Pen cried in a ghastly voice, and flung himselfdown on a chair. 

The valet backed before the pale and desperate-looking young man, with terrified and wondering glances, and disappeared into hismaster's apartment, whence the Major put out his head as soon as hehad his wig on. 

"What? Examination over? Senior Wrangler, Double First Class, hey?" saidthe old gentleman. "I'll come directly, " and the head disappeared. 

Pen was standing with his back to the window, so that his uncle could notsee the expression of gloomy despair on the young man's face. But when heheld out his hand to Pen, and was about to address him in his cheery, high-toned voice, he caught sight of the boy's face; and dropping hishand said, "Why, Pen, what's the matter?"

"You'll see it in the papers at breakfast, sir, " Pen said. 

"See what?"

"My name isn't there, sir. "

"Hang it, why _should_ it be?" asked the Major, more perplexed. 

"I have lost everything, sir, " groaned out Pen; "my honour's gone; I'mruined irretrievably; I can't go back to Oxbridge. "

"Lost your honour?" screamed out the Major. "Heaven alive! You don't meanto say you have shown the white feather?"

Pen laughed bitterly at the word feather, and repeated it. "No, it isn'tthat, sir. I'm not afraid of being shot; I wish anybody would shoot me. Ihave not got my degree. I--I'm plucked, sir. "

The Major had heard of plucking, but in a very vague and cursory way, andconcluded that it was some ceremony performed corporally upon rebelliousuniversity youth. "I wonder you can look me in the face after such adisgrace, sir, " he said; "I wonder you submitted to it as a gentleman. "

"I couldn't help it, sir. I did my classical papers well enough: it wasthose infernal mathematics, which I have always neglected. "

"Was it--was it done in public, sir?" the Major said. 

"What?"

"The--the plucking?" asked the guardian, looking Pen anxiously in theface. 

Pen perceived the error under which his guardian was labouring, and inthe midst of his misery the blunder caused the poor wretch a faint smile, and served to bring down the conversation from the tragedy-key in whichPen had been disposed to carry it on. He explained to his uncle that hehad gone in to pass his examination, and failed. On which the Major said, that though he had expected far better things of his nephew, there was nogreat misfortune in this, and no dishonour as far as he saw, and thatPen must try again. 

"Me again at Oxbridge!" Pen thought, "after such a humiliation asthat?" He felt that, except he went down to burn the place, he couldnot enter it. 

But it was when he came to tell his uncle of his debts that the otherfelt surprise and anger most keenly, and broke out into speeches mostsevere upon Pen, which the lad bore, as best he might, without flinching. 

It appeared that his bills in all amounted to about £700; and furthermoreit was calculated that he had had more than twice that sum during hisstay at Oxbridge. This sum he had spent, and for it he had to show--what?

"You need not press a man who is down, sir, " Pen said to his uncle, gloomily. "I know very well how wicked and idle I have been. My motherwon't like to see me dishonoured, sir, " he continued, with his voicefailing; "and I know she will pay these accounts. But I shall ask her forno more money. "

"As you like, sir, " the Major said. "You are of age, and my hands arewashed of your affairs. But you can't live without money, and have nomeans of making it that I see, though you have a fine talent in spendingit, and it is my belief that you will proceed as you have begun, and ruinyour mother before you are five years older. Good-morning; it is time forme to go to breakfast. My engagements won't permit me to see you muchduring the time that you stay in London. I presume that you will acquaintyour mother with the news which you have just conveyed to me. "

And pulling on his hat, and trembling in his limbs somewhat, MajorPendennis walked out of his lodgings before his nephew, and went ruefullyoff to take his accustomed corner at the club, where he saw the Oxbridgeexamination lists in the morning papers, and read over the names withmournful accuracy, thinking also with bitterness of the many plans he hadformed to make a man of his nephew, of the sacrifices which he had made, and of the manner in which he was disappointed. And he wrote a letter toDr. Portman telling him what had happened and begging the Doctor to breakthe sad news to Helen. Then the Major went out to dinner, one of thesaddest men in any London dining-room that day. 

On receipt of the Major's letter Dr. Portman went at once to Fair-Oaks tobreak the disagreeable news to Mrs. Pendennis. She had already received aletter from Pen, and to the Doctor's great indignation she seemed to feelno particular unhappiness except that her darling boy should be unhappy. What was this degree that they made such an outcry about, and what goodwould it do Pen? Why did Dr. Portman and his uncle insist upon sendingthe boy where there was so much temptation to be risked, and so littlegood to be won? Why didn't they leave him at home with his mother? Herboy was coming back to her repentant and tender-hearted, --why should shewant more? As for his debts, of course they must be paid;--hisdebts. --Wasn't his father's money all his, and hadn't he a right to spendit? In this way the widow met the virtuous Doctor, and all his anger tookno effect upon her gentle bosom. 

As for Laura, Pen's little adopted sister, she was no longer the simplegirl of Pen's college days, but a tall, slim, handsome young lady. At theage of sixteen she was a sweet young lady indeed, ordinarily pale, with afaint rose-tinge in her cheeks. Her eyes were very large and some criticssaid that she was in the habit of making play with those eyes, but thefact is that nature had made them so to shine and to look, that theycould no more help so looking and shining than one star can help beingbrighter than another. It was doubtless to soften their brightness thatMiss Laura's eyes were provided with two veils in the shape of thelongest and finest black eyelashes. Her complexion was brilliant, hersmile charming, while her voice was so low and sweet that to hear it waslike listening to sweet music. 

Now, this same charming Miss Laura had only been half pleased with Pen'sgeneral conduct and bearing during the past two years. His letters to hismother had been very rare and short. It was in vain that the fond widowurged how constant Arthur's occupations and studies were, and how manyhis engagements. "It is better that he should lose a prize, " Laura said, "than forget his mother: and indeed, Mamma, I don't see that he gets manyprizes. Why doesn't he come home and stay with you, instead of passinghis vacations at his great friends' fine houses? There is nobody therethat will love him half as much as you do. " Thus Laura declared stoutly, nor would she be convinced by any of Helen's fond arguments that the boymust make his way in the world; that his uncle was most desirous that Penshould cultivate the acquaintance of persons who were likely to befriendhim in life; that men had a thousand ties and calls which women could notunderstand, and so forth. 

But as soon as Miss Laura heard that Pen was unfortunate and unhappy, allher anger straightway vanished, giving place to the most tendercompassion. He was the Pen of old days, the frank and affectionate, thegenerous and tender-hearted. She at once took side with Helen against Dr. Portman when he cried out at the enormity of Pen's transgressions. Debts? What were his debts? They were a trifle; he had been thrown intoexpensive society by his uncle's order, and of course was obliged to livein the same manner as the young gentlemen whose company he frequented. Disgraced by not getting his degree? The poor boy was ill when he wentfor the examinations; he couldn't think of his mathematics and stuff onaccount of those very debts which oppressed him; very likely some of theodious tutors and masters were jealous of him, and had favourites oftheir own whom they wanted to put over his head. Other people dislikedhim and were cruel to him, and were unfair to him, she was very sure. 

And so with flushing cheeks and eyes bright with anger this youngcreature reasoned, and went up and seized Helen's hand and kissed her inthe Doctor's presence; and her looks braved the Doctor and seemed to askhow he dared to say a word against her darling mother's Pen?

Directly the Doctor was gone, Laura ordered fires to be lighted in Mr. Arthur's rooms, and his bedding to be aired; and by the time Helen hadcompleted a tender and affectionate letter to Pen, Laura had herpreparations completed, and, smiling fondly, went with her mamma intoPen's room, which was now ready for him to occupy. Laura also added apostscript to Helen's letter, in which she called him her dearest friend, and bade him come home _instantly_ and be happy with his mother and hisaffectionate Laura. 

That night when Mrs. Pendennis was lying sleepless, thinking of Pen, avoice at her side startled her, saying softly: "Mamma, are you awake?"

It was Laura. "You know, Mamma, " this young lady said, "that I have beenliving with you for ten years, during which time you have never takenany of my money, and have been treating me just as if I were a charitygirl. Now, this obligation has offended me very much, because I am proudand do not like to be beholden to people. And as, if I had gone toschool, only I wouldn't, it must have cost me as least fifty pounds ayear, it is clear that I owe you fifty times ten pounds, which I knowyou have put into the bank at Chatteris for me, and which doesn't belongto me a bit. Now, to-morrow we will go to Chatteris, and see that niceold Mr. Rowdy, with the bald head, and ask him for it, --not for hishead, but for the five hundred pounds; and I daresay he will lend youtwo more, which we will save and pay back, and we will send the money toPen, who can pay all his debts without hurting anybody, and then we willlive happy ever after. "

What Mrs. Pendennis replied to this speech need not be repeated, but wemay be sure that its terms were those of the deepest gratitude, and thatthe widow lost no time in writing off to Pen an account of the noble, themagnificent offer of Laura, filling up her letter with a profusion ofbenedictions upon both her children. 

As for Pen, after being deserted by the Major, and writing his letter tohis mother, he skulked about London streets for the rest of the day, fancying that everybody was looking at him and whispering to hisneighbour, "That is Pendennis of Boniface, who was plucked yesterday. "His letter to his mother was full of tenderness and remorse: he wept thebitterest tears over it, and the repentance soothed him to some degree. 

On the second day of his London wanderings there came a kind letter fromhis tutor, containing many grave and appropriate remarks upon what hadbefallen him, but strongly urging Pen not to take his name off theUniversity books, and to retrieve a disaster which everybody knew wasowing to his own carelessness alone, and which he might repair by amonth of application. 

On the third day there arrived the letter from home which Pen read in hisbedroom, and the result of which was that he fell down on his knees, withhis head in the bedclothes, and there prayed out his heart, and humbledhimself; and having gone downstairs and eaten an immense breakfast, hesallied forth and took his place at the Bull and Mouth, Piccadilly, onthe Chatteris coach for that evening. 

And so the Prodigal came home, and the fatted calf was killed for him, and he was made as happy as two simple women could make him. 

For some time he said no power on earth could induce him to go back toOxbridge again after his failure there; but one day Laura said to him, with many blushes, that she thought, as some sort of reparation, orpunishment on himself for his idleness, he ought to go back and get hisdegree if he could fetch it by doing so; and so back Mr. Pen went. 

A plucked man is a dismal being in a university; belonging to no set ofmen there and owned by no one. Pen felt himself plucked indeed of all thefine feathers which he had won during his brilliant years, and rarelyappeared out of his college; regularly going to morning chapel andshutting himself up in his rooms of nights, away from the noise andsuppers of the undergraduates. The men of his years had taken theirdegrees and were gone. He went into a second examination, and passed withperfect ease. He was somewhat more easy in his mind when he appeared inhis bachelor's gown, and could cast aside the hated badge of disgrace. 

On his way back from Oxbridge he paid a visit to his uncle in London, hoping that gentleman would accept his present success in place of hispast failure, but the old gentleman received him with very cold looks, and would scarcely give him his forefinger to shake. He called a secondtime, but the valet said his master was not at home. 

So Pen went back to Fair-Oaks. True, he had retrieved his failure, hadwon his honours, but he came back to his home a very different fellowfrom the bright-faced youth who had gone out into college life some yearsbefore. He no longer laughed, sang, or rollicked about the house as ofold; he had tasted of the fruit of the awful Tree of Life which from thebeginning had tempted all mankind, and which had changed Arthur Pendennisthe light-hearted boy into a man. Young, he is, of course, and stillawaiting the development which life's deeper experiences are to bring, but nevertheless he is not again to taste the joy, the zest, or theenthusiasm which come to careless boyhood. 

Arthur Pendennis is now a competitor among the ranks of men strivingafter life's prizes, and this narrative of his boyhood ends. 

CAROLINE

[Illustration: Miss CAROLINE AND BECKY. ]

Since the time of Cinderella the First there have been many similarinstances in real life of the persecution of youth by family injusticeand cruelty, and no case more strikingly similar than that of MissCaroline Brandenburg Gann, whose youthful career was one of monotonoushardship and injustice until the arrival of her fairy prince. 

The story is a short one to relate, but to live through the days andmonths of sixteen unhappy years seemed an eternal process to the youngheart beating high with hopes which must constantly be stifled, and giveplace to bitter disappointment. 

But to go back for a moment to the time when Louis XVIII. Was restored asecond time to the throne of his father, and all the English who hadmoney or leisure rushed over to the Continent. At that time there livedin a certain boarding-house at Brussels a lady who was called Mrs. Crabb;and her daughter, a genteel young widow, who bore the name of Mrs. Wellesley McCarty. Previous to this Mrs. McCarty, who was then MissCrabb, had run off one day with a young Ensign, who possessed not ashilling, and who speedily died, leaving his widow without property, butwith a remarkably fine pair of twins, named Rosalind Clancy and IsabellaFinigan Wellesley McCarty. 

The young widow being left penniless, her mother, who had disowned therunaway couple, was obliged to become reconciled to her daughter and toshare her small income of one hundred and twenty pounds a year with her. Upon this at the boarding-house in Brussels the two managed to live. Thetwins were put out, after the foreign fashion, to nurse, and a village inthe neighbourhood, and the widow and her mother maintained a very goodappearance despite their small income; and it was not long before theWidow McCarty married a young Englishman, James Gann, Esq. --of the greatoil-house of Gann, Blubbery, and Gann, --who was boarding in the samehouse with Mrs. Crabb and her daughter. These ladies, who had their fullshare of common sense, took care to keep the twins in the backgrounduntil such time as the Widow McCarty had become Mrs. Gann. Then on theday after the wedding, in the presence of many friends who had come tooffer their congratulations, a stout nurse, bearing the two chubby littleones, made her appearance; and these rosy urchins, springing forward, shouted affectionately, "_Maman! Maman_!" to the great astonishment andbewilderment of James Gann, who well-nigh fainted at this suddenpaternity so put upon him. However, being a good-humoured, soft-heartedman, he kissed his lady hurriedly, and vowed that he would take care ofthe poor little things, whom he would also have kissed, but the darlingsrefused his caress with many roars. 

Soon after their marriage Mr. And Mrs. James Gann returned to England andoccupied a house in Thames Street, City, until the death of Gann, Sr. , when his son, becoming head of the firm, mounted higher on the socialladder and went to live in the neighbourhood of Putney, where a neat box, a couple of spare bedrooms, a good cellar, and a smart gig made a realgentleman of him. About this period, a daughter was born to him, calledCaroline Blandenburg Gann, so named after a large mansion nearHammersmith, and an injured queen who lived there at the time of thelittle girl's birth. 

At this time Mrs. James Gann sent the twins, Rosalind Clancy and IsabellaFinigan Wellesley McCarty, to a boarding-school for young ladies, andgrumbled much at the amount of the bills which her husband was obliged topay for them; for, although James discharged them with perfectgood-humour, his lady began to entertain a mean opinion indeed of herpretty young children. They could expect no fortune, she said, from Mr. Gann, and she wondered that he should think of bringing them upexpensively, when he had a darling child of his own for whom to save allthe money that he could lay by. 

Grandmamma, too, doted on the little Caroline Brandenburg, and vowedthat she would leave her three thousand pounds to this dear infant; forin this way does the world show its respect for that most respectablething, prosperity, and little Caroline was the daughter of prosperousJames Gann. 

Little Caroline, then, had her maid, her airy nursery, her littlecarriage to drive in, the promise of her grandmamma's money, and hermamma's undivided affection. Gann, too, loved her sincerely in hiscareless good-humoured way; but he determined, notwithstanding, that hisstep-daughters should have something handsome at his death, but--but fora great But. 

Gann and Blubbery were in the oil line; their profits arose fromcontracts for lighting a great number of streets in London; and aboutthis period gas came into use. The firm of Gann and Blubbery had been sobadly managed, I am sorry to say, and so great had been the extravaganceof both partners and their ladies, that they only paid their creditorsfourteen-pence halfpenny in the pound. 

When Mrs. Crabb heard of this dreadful accident she at once proclaimedJames Gann to be a swindler, a villain, a disreputable, vulgar man, andmade over her money to the Misses Rosalind Clancy and Isabella FiniganMcCarty, leaving poor little Caroline without a cent of legacy. Half ofone thousand five hundred pounds allotted to each twin was to be paid atmarriage, the other half on the death of Mrs. James Gann, who was toenjoy the interest thereof. Thus did the fortunes of little Carolinealter in a single night! Thus did Cinderella enter upon the period of herloneliness!

After James Gann's failure his family lived in various uncomfortableways, until at length Mrs. Gann opened a lodging-house in a certain backstreet in the town of Margate, on the door of which house might be readin gleaming brass the name of MR. GANN. It was the work of a singlesmutty servant-maid to clean this brass plate every morning, and toattend to the wants of Mr. Gann, his family, and lodgers. In this samehouse Mr. Gann had his office, though if truth be told he had nothing todo from morning until night. He was very much changed, poor fellow! Hewas now a fat, bald-headed man of fifty whose tastes were no longeraristocratic, and who loved public-house jokes and company. 

As for Mrs. Gann, she had changed, too, under the pressure ofmisfortune. Her chief occupation was bragging of her formeracquaintances, taking medicine, and mending and altering her gowns. Shehad a huge taste for cheap finery, loved raffles, tea-parties, and walkson the pier, where she flaunted herself and daughters as gay asbutterflies. She stood upon her rank, did not fail to tell her lodgersthat she was "a gentlewoman, " and was mighty sharp with Becky, themaid, and Carrie, her youngest child. 

For the tide of affection had turned now, and the Misses WellesleyMcCarty were the darlings of their mother's heart, as Caroline had beenin the early days of Putney prosperity. Mrs. Gann respected and loved herelder daughters, the stately heiresses of £1500, and scorned poorCaroline, who was likewise scorned, like Cinderella, by her brace ofhaughty, thoughtless sisters. These young women were tall, well-grown, black-browed girls, fond of fun, and having great health and spirits. They had pink cheeks, white shoulders, and many glossy curls about theirshining foreheads. Such charms cannot fail of having their effect, and itwas very lucky for Caroline that she did not possess them, or she mighthave been as vain, frivolous, and vulgar as these young ladies were. Asit was, Caroline was pale and thin, with fair hair and neat grey eyes;nobody thought her a beauty in her moping cotton gown, and while hersisters enjoyed their pleasures and tea-parties abroad, it was Carrie'susual fate to remain at home and help the servant in the many dutieswhich were required in Mrs. Gann's establishment. She dressed her mammaand her sisters, brought her papa his tea in bed, kept the lodgers'bills, bore their scoldings, and sometimes gave a hand in the kitchen ifany extra cookery was required. At two she made a little toilette fordinner, and was employed on numberless household darnings and mendings inthe long evenings while her sisters giggled over the jingling piano. Mamma lay on the sofa, and Gann was at the club. A weary lot, in sooth, was yours, --poor little Caroline. Since the days of your infancy, not onehour of sunshine, no friendship, no cheery playfellows, no mother's love!Only James Gann, of all the household, had a good-natured look for her, and a coarse word of kindness, but Caroline did not complain, nor shedany tears. Her misery was dumb and patient; she felt that she wasill-treated, and had no companion; but was not on that account envious, only humble and depressed, not desiring so much to resist as to bearinjustice, and hardly venturing to think for herself. This tyranny andhumility served her in place of education and formed her manners, whichwere wonderfully gentle and calm. It was strange to see such a persongrowing up in such a family, and the neighbours spoke of her with muchscornful compassion. "A poor half-witted, thing, " they said, "who couldnot say bo! to a goose. " And I think it is one good test of gentility tobe thus looked down on by vulgar people. 

I have said that Miss Caroline had no friend in the world except herfather, but one friend she most certainly had, and that was honest Becky, the smutty maid, whose name has been mentioned before. A great comfort itwas for Caroline to descend to the calm kitchen from the stormyback-parlour, and there vent some of her little woes to the compassionateservant of all work. 

When Mrs. Gann went out with her daughters Becky would take her work andcome and keep Miss Caroline company; and, if the truth must be told, thegreatest enjoyment the pair used to have was in these afternoons, whenthey read together out of the precious, greasy, marble-covered volumesthat Mrs. Gann was in the habit of fetching from the library. Many andmany a tale had the pair so gone through. I can see them over "Manfrone;or the One-handed Monk, " the room dark, the street silent, the hour ten, the tall, red, lurid candlewick waggling down, the flame flickering paleupon Miss Caroline's pale face as she read out, and lighting up honestBecky's goggling eyes, who sat silent, her work in her lap; she had notdone a stitch of it for an hour. As the trapdoor slowly opens, and thescowling Alonzo, bending over the sleeping Imoinda, draws his pistol, cocks it, looks well if the priming be right, places it then to thesleeper's ear, and--_thunder under-under_--down fall the snuffers! Beckyhas had them in her hand for ten minutes, afraid to use them. Up startsCaroline and flings the book back into mamma's basket. It is only thatlady returned with her daughters from a tea-party, where they have beenenjoying themselves. 

For the sentimental, too, as well as the terrible, Miss Caroline and thecook had a strong predilection, and had wept their poor eyes out over"Thaddeus of Warsaw" and the "Scottish Chiefs. " Fortified by the examplesdrawn from those instructive volumes, Becky was firmly convinced that heryoung mistress would meet with a great lord some day or other, or becarried off, like Cinderella, by a brilliant prince, to the mortificationof her elder sisters, whom Becky hated. 

When, therefore, a new lodger came, lonely, mysterious, melancholy, elegant, with the romantic name of George Brandon--when he actually wrotea letter directed to a lord, and Miss Caroline and Becky togetherexamined the superscription, Becky's eyes were lighted up with apreternatural look of wondering wisdom; whereas, after an instant, Caroline dropped hers, and blushed and said, "Nonsense, Becky!"

"Is it nonsense?" said Becky, grinning, and snapping her fingers with atriumphant air; "the cards come true; I knew they would. Didn't you havea king and queen of hearts three deals running? What did you dream aboutlast Tuesday, tell me that?"

But Miss Caroline never did tell, for just then her sisters came bouncingdown the stairs, and examined the lodger's letter. Caroline, however, went away musing much upon these points; and she began to think Mr. Brandon more wonderful and beautiful every day, whereas he was remarkablefor nothing except very black eyes, a sallow face, and a habit of smokingcigars in bed till noon. His name of George Brandon was only an assumedone. He was really the son of a half-pay Colonel, of good family, who hadbeen sent to Eton to acquire an education. From Eton he went to Oxford, took honours there, but ran up bills amounting to two thousand pounds. Then there came fury on the part of his stern old "governor"; and finalpayment of the debt, but while this settlement was pending Master Georgehad contracted many more debts and was glad to fly to the Continent astutor to young Lord Cinqbars, and afterwards went into retirement atMargate until his father's wrath should be appeased. For that reason wefind him a member of the Gann establishment, flirting when occasionseemed to demand it with mother and daughters, and taking occasionalnotice of little Caroline, who frequently broiled his cutlets. 

Mrs. Gann's other lodger was a fantastic youth, Andrea Fitch, to whom hisart, and his beard and whiskers, were the darlings of his heart. He was ayouth of poetic temperament, whose long pale hair fell over a highpolished brow, which looked wonderfully thoughtful; and yet no man wasmore guiltless of thinking. He was always putting himself into attitudes, and his stock-in-trade were various theatrical properties, which whenarranged in his apartments on the second floor made a tremendous show. 

The Misses Wellesley McCarty voted this Mr. Fitch an elegant youngfellow, and before long the intimacy between the young people wasconsiderable, for Mr. Fitch insisted upon drawing the portraits of thewhole family. 

"I suppose you will do my Carrie next?" said Mr. Gann, one day, expressing his approbation of a portrait just finished, wherein theMisses McCarty were represented embracing one another. 

"Law, sir, " exclaimed Miss Linda, "Carrie, with her red hair!--"

"Mr. Fitch might as well paint Becky, our maid!" cried Miss Bella. 

"Carrie is quite impossible, Gann, " said Mrs. Gann; "she hasn't a gownfit to be seen in. She's not been at church for thirteen Sundays inconsequence. "

"And more shame for you, ma'am, " said Mr. Gann, who liked his child;"Carrie shall have a gown, and the best of gowns;" and jingling three andtwenty shillings in his pocket, Mr. Gann determined to spend them all inthe purchase of a robe for Carrie. But, alas, the gown never came; halfthe money was spent that very evening at the tavern. 

"Is that--that young lady your daughter?" asked Mr. Fitch, surprised, forhe fancied Carrie was a humble companion of the family. 

"Yes, she is, and a very good daughter, too, sir, " answered Mr. Gann. "_Fetch_ and Carrie I call her, or else Carry-van; she is so useful. Ain't you, Carrie?"

"I'm very glad if I am, Papa, " said the young lady, blushing violently. 

"Hold your tongue, Miss!" said her mother; "you are, very expensive tous, that you are, and need not brag about the work you do, and if yoursisters and me starve to keep you, and some other folks" (lookingfiercely at Mr. Gann), "I presume you are bound to make some return. "

Poor Caroline was obliged to listen to this harangue on her ownill-conduct in silence. As it was the first lecture Mr. Fitch had heardon the subject, he naturally set down Caroline for a monster. Was she notidle, sulky, scornful, and a sloven? For these and many more of herdaughter's vices Mrs. Gann vouched, declaring that Caroline's behaviourwas hastening her own death; and she finished by a fainting fit. In thepresence of all these charges, there stood Miss Caroline, dumb, stupidand careless; nay, when the fainting-fit came on, and Mrs. Gann fell backon the sofa, the unfeeling girl took the opportunity to retire, and neveroffered to rub her mamma's hands, to give her the smelling bottle, or torestore her with a glass of water. 

Mr. Fitch stood close at hand, for at the time he was painting Mrs. Gann's portrait--and he was hastily making towards her with his tumbler, when Miss Linda cried out, "Stop! the water is full of paint!" andstraightway burst out laughing. Mrs. Gann jumped up at this, curedsuddenly, and left the room, looking somewhat foolish. 

"You don't know Ma, " said Miss Linda, still giggling; "she's alwaysfainting. "

"Poor dear lady!" said the artist; "I pity her from my inmost soul. Doesn't the himmortal bard observe how sharper than a serpent's tooth itis to have a thankless child? And is it true, ma'am, that that youngwoman has been the ruin of her family?"

"Ruin of her fiddlestick!" replied Miss Bella. "Law, Mr. Fitch, you don'tknow Ma yet; she is in one of her tantrums. "

"What, then, it _isn't_ true!" cried simple-minded Fitch. To whichneither of the young ladies made any answer in words, nor could thelittle artist comprehend why they looked at each other and burst outlaughing. But he retired pondering on what he had seen and heard, andbeing a very soft young fellow, most implicitly believed the accusationsof poor dear Mrs. Gann for a time. 

Presently, however, those opinions changed, and the change was broughtabout by watching closely the trend of domestic affairs in the Gannestablishment. After a fortnight of close observation the artist, thoughby no means quick of comprehension, began to see that the nightly chargesbrought against poor Caroline could not be founded upon truth. 

"Let's see, " mused he to himself. "Tuesday the old lady said her daughterwas bringing her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave, because the cookhad not boiled the potatoes. Wednesday she said Caroline was an assassin, because she could not find her own thimble. Thursday she vowed Carolinehad no religion, because that old pair of silk stockings were not darned;and this can't be, " reasoned Fitch. "A gal ain't a murderess, because herma can't find her thimble. A woman that goes to slap her grown-updaughter on the back, and before company too, for such a paltry thing asan old pair of stockings, can't be surely speaking the truth. " And thusgradually his first impression against Caroline wore away, and pity tookpossession of his soul, pity for the meek little girl, who, thoughtrampled upon, was now springing up to womanhood; and though pale, freckled, thin, meanly dressed, had a certain charm about her which somepeople preferred to the cheap splendours and rude red and white of theMisses McCarty, and which was calculated to touch the heart of anyone whowatched her carefully. 

On account of Mr. Brandon's correspondence with the aristocracy thatyoung gentleman was highly esteemed by the family with whom he lodged fora time. Then, however, he bragged so much, and assumed such airs ofsuperiority, that he perfectly disgusted Mrs. Gann and the MissesMcCarty, who did not at all like his way of telling them that he wastheir better. But James Gann looked up to Mr. Brandon with deepestwonder as a superior being. And poor little Caroline followed herfather's faith and in six weeks after Mr. Brandon's arrival had grown tobelieve him the most perfect, polished, agreeable of mankind. Indeed, thepoor girl had never seen a gentleman before, and towards such her gentleheart turned instinctively. Brandon never offended her by hard words; orinsulted her by cruel scorn such as she met with from her mother andsisters; and so Caroline felt that he was their superior, and as suchadmired and respected him. 

Consequently one day when he condescended to dine with the family atthree o'clock, there being another guest as well, one Mr. Swigby, Caroline felt it to be one of the greatest occasions of her life, and wasfairly trembling with pleasure, when, dinner being half over, she stolegently into the room and took her ordinary place near her father. I dobelieve she would have been starved, but Gann was much too good-naturedto allow any difference to be made between her and her sisters in thematter of food. An old rickety wooden stool was placed for her, insteadof that elegant and comfortable Windsor chair which supported every otherperson at table; by the side of the plate stood a curious old batteredtin mug bearing the inscription "Caroline. " These, in truth, were poorCaroline's mug and stool, having been appropriated to her from childhoodupwards; and here it was her custom meekly to sit and eat her daily meal. 

Caroline's pale face was very red; for she had been in the kitchenhelping Becky, and had been showing her respect for the great Mr. Brandonby cooking in her best manner a certain dish for which her papa had oftenpraised her. She took her place, blushing violently when she saw him, andif Mr. Gann had not been making a violent clattering with his knife andfork, it is possible that he might have heard Miss Caroline's heartthump, which it did violently. Her dress was somehow a little smarterthan usual, and Becky, who brought in the hashed mutton, looked at heryoung lady complacently, as, loaded with plates, she quitted the room. Indeed, the poor girl deserved to be looked at: there was an air ofgentleness and innocence about her which was very touching, and which thetwo young men did not fail to remark. 

"You are very late, miss!" cried Mrs. Gann, who affected not to know whathad caused her daughter's delay. "You are always late!" and the eldergirls stared and grinned at each other knowingly, as they always did whenmamma made such attacks upon Caroline, who only kept her eyes down uponthe table-cloth, and began to eat her dinner without saying a word. 

"Come, come, my dear, " cried honest Gann, "if she _is_ late, you knowwhy! Our Carrie has been downstairs making the pudding for her old pappy;and a good pudding she makes, I can tell you!"

Miss Caroline blushed more deeply than ever; Mr. Fitch stared her full inthe face; Mrs. Gann said "Nonsense!" and "Stuff!" very majestically; Mr. Brandon alone interposed in Caroline's favour; and the words that he saidwere so kindly, so inspiring to Caroline that she cared not a strawwhatever else might be said about her. "Mamma may say what she pleasesto-day, " thought Caroline. "I am too happy to be made angry by her. "

But poor little mistaken Caroline did not know how soon her feelings wereto be harassed again beyond endurance. The dinner had not advanced muchfurther, when Miss Isabella, who had been examining Caroline curiouslyfor some time, telegraphed across the table to Miss Linda, and noddedand winked, and pointed to her own neck, on which was a smart necklace ofthe lightest blue glass beads finishing in a neat tassel. Linda had asimilar ornament of a vermilion colour, whereas Caroline wore a handsomenew collar and a brooch, which looked all the smarter for the shabbyfrock over which they were placed. As soon as she saw her sister'ssignals the poor little thing blushed deeply again; down went her eyesonce more, and her face and neck lighted up to the colour of Miss Linda'ssham cornelian. 

"What's the gals giggling and oggling about?" asked Mr. Gann innocently. 

"What is it, my darling love?" asked stately Mrs. Gann. 

"Why, don't you see, Ma?" said Linda. "Look at Miss Carrie! I'm blessedif she hasn't got on Becky's collar and brooch, that Sims the pilotgave her!"

The young ladies fell back in uproarious fits of laughter, and laughedall the time that their mamma was declaring her daughter's conductunworthy a gentlewoman, and bidding her leave the room and take off thosedisgraceful ornaments. 

There was no need to tell her; the poor little thing gave one piteouslook at her father, who was whistling, and seemed indeed to think thematter a good joke; and after she had managed to open the door down shewent to the kitchen, and when she reached that humble place of refugefirst pulled off Becky's collar and brooch, and then flung herself intothe arms of that honest maid, where she cried and cried till she broughton the first fit of hysterics that ever she had had. 

This crying could not at first be heard in the parlour, where the companywere roaring at the excellence of the joke, but presently the laughterdied away, and the sound of weeping came from the kitchen below. This theyoung artist could not bear, but bounced up from his chair and rushedout of the room, exclaiming, "By Jove, it's too bad!"

From the scene of merriment he rushed forth and out of the house into thedark, wet streets, fired with one impulse, inspired by one purpose:--toresist the tyranny of Mrs. Gann towards poor Caroline; to protect thegentle girl from the injustice of which she was the victim. All hissympathies from that moment were awakened in Caroline's favour. 

As for Mr. Brandon, whom Caroline in the depths of her little silly hearthad set down for the wondrous fairy prince who was to deliver her fromher present miserable condition, he was a man to whom opposition actedever as a spur. Up to this time he had given little or no thought to theyoung girl with the pale face and quiet manner, but now he was amused, and his interest was awakened by the indignation of Mr. Fitch. He waspiqued also by the system of indifference to his charms indulged in byCaroline's older sisters, and determined to revenge himself upon them fortheir hardness of heart by devotion to Caroline. As he wrote in a letterthat very day: "I am determined through a third daughter, a familyCinderella, to make her sisters _quiver_ with envy. I merely mean fun, for Cinderella is but a little child. .. . I wish I had paper enough towrite you an account of a Gann dinner at which I have just assisted, andof a scene which there took place; and how Cinderella was dressed out, not by a fairy, but by a charitable kitchen maid, and was turned out ofthe room by her indignant mamma for appearing in the maid's finery. .. . "

This, and much more, Mr. Brandon, who at once turned his attention tobeing excessively kind and polite to our humble Cinderella. Caroline, being a most romantic little girl, and having read many novels, depictedBrandon in a fancy costume such as her favourite hero wore, or fanciedherself as the heroine, watching her knight go forth to battle. Sillyfancies, no doubt; but consider the poor girl's age and education; theonly instruction she had ever received was from these tender, kind-hearted, silly books; the only happiness which fate had allowed herwas in this little silent world of fancy. It would be hard to grudge thepoor thing her dreams; and many such did she have, and tell blushingly tohonest Becky as they sat by the kitchen fire, while indignation wasgrowing apace in the breasts of her mother and sisters at the sight of somuch interest centred on so poor an object. And even so did the haughtysisters of Cinderella the First feel and act. 

But Cinderella's kitchen days were fast drawing to an end, even as she, apale slip of a girl, was budding into womanhood. 

One evening Mrs. Gann and the Misses McCarty had the honour ofentertaining Mr. Swigby at tea, and that gentleman, in return for thecourtesy shown him by Mrs. Gann, invited the young ladies and their mammato drive with him the next day into the country; for which excursion hehad hired a very smart barouche. The invitation was not declined, and Mr. Fitch, too, was asked, and accepted with the utmost delight. "Me andSwigby will go on the box, " said Gann. "You four ladies and Mr. Fitchshall go inside. Carrie must go between; but she ain't very big. "

"Carrie, indeed, will stop at home!" said her mamma. At this poor Fitch'sjaw fell; he had agreed to accompany the party only for the pleasure ofbeing in the company of little Caroline, nor could he escape now, havingjust accepted so eagerly. 

"Oh, don't let's have that proud Brandon!" exclaimed the young ladies, inconsequence of which that gentleman was not invited to join theexcursion. 

The day was bright and sunshiny. Poor Caroline, watching the baroucheand its load drive off, felt that it would have been pleasant to havebeen a lady for once, and to have driven along in a carriage withprancing horses. The girl's heart was heavy with disappointment andloneliness as she stood at the parlour window, watching the vehicledisappear from sight. 

Oh, mighty Fate, that over us miserable mortals rulest supreme, withwhat small means are thy ends effected! With what scornful ease andmean instruments does it please thee to govern mankind! Mr. Fitchaccompanied the Gann family on their drive to the country; Mr. Brandonremained behind. 

Caroline, too, the Cinderella of this little tale, was left at home; andthereby were placed in the hand of Fate all necessary instruments ofrevenge to be used in the punishment of Mrs. Gann and the Misses McCartyfor their ill-treatment of our little Cinderella. 

The story of Caroline Brandenburg Gann's youth is told. The fairy princeis at hand, and the short chapter of girlhood and misery is finished.