Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray (best thriller novels to read TXT) 📕

His old brown holland was good enough when he stayed at home. Sometimes, when she was away, and Dolly his maid was making his bed, he came into his mother’s room. It was as the abode of a fairy to him⁠—a mystic chamber of splendour and delights. There in the wardrobe hung those wonderful robes⁠—pink and blue and many-tinted. There was the jewel-case, silver-clasped, and the wondrous bronze hand on the dressing-table, glistening all over with a hundred rings. There was the cheval-glass, that miracle of art, in which he could just see his own wondering head and the reflection of Dolly (queerly distorted, and as if up in the ceiling), plumping and patting the pillows of the bed. Oh, thou poor lonely little benighted boy! Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children; and here was one who was worshipping a stone!

Now Rawdon Crawley, rascal as the Colonel was, had certain manly tendencies of affection in his heart and could love a child and a woman still. For Rawdon minor he had a great secret tenderness then, which did not escape Rebecca, though she did not talk about it to her husband. It did not annoy her: she was too good-natured. It only increased her scorn for him. He felt somehow ashamed of this paternal softness and hid it from his wife⁠—only indulging in it when alone with the boy.

He used to take him out of mornings when they would go to the stables together and to the park. Little Lord Southdown, the best-natured of men, who would make you a present of the hat from his head, and whose main occupation in life was to buy knickknacks that he might give them away afterwards, bought the little chap a pony not much bigger than a large rat, the donor said, and on this little black Shetland pygmy young Rawdon’s great father was pleased to mount the boy, and to walk by his side in the park.

It pleased him to see his old quarters, and his old fellow-guardsmen at Knightsbridge: he had begun to think of his bachelorhood with something like regret. The old troopers were glad to recognize their ancient officer and dandle the little colonel. Colonel Crawley found dining at mess and with his brother-officers very pleasant. “Hang it, I ain’t clever enough for her⁠—I know it. She won’t miss me,” he used to say: and he was right, his wife did not miss him.

Rebecca was fond of her husband. She was always perfectly good-humoured and kind to him. She did not even show her scorn much for him; perhaps she liked him the better for being a fool. He was her upper servant and maître d’hôtel. He went on her errands; obeyed her orders without question; drove in the carriage in the ring with her without repining; took her to the opera-box, solaced himself at his club during the performance, and came punctually back to fetch her when due. He would have liked her to be a little fonder of the boy, but even to that he reconciled himself. “Hang it, you know she’s so clever,” he said, “and I’m not literary and that, you know.” For, as we have said before, it requires no great wisdom to be able to win at cards and billiards, and Rawdon made no pretensions to any other sort of skill.

When the companion came, his domestic duties became very light. His wife encouraged him to dine abroad: she would let him off duty at the opera. “Don’t stay and stupefy yourself at home tonight, my dear,” she would say. “Some men are coming who will only bore you. I would not ask them, but you know it’s for your good, and now I have a sheepdog, I need not be afraid to be alone.”

“A sheepdog⁠—a companion! Becky Sharp with a companion! Isn’t it good fun?” thought Mrs. Crawley to herself. The notion tickled hugely her sense of humour.

One Sunday morning, as Rawdon Crawley, his little son, and the pony were taking their accustomed walk in the park, they passed by an old acquaintance of the Colonel’s, Corporal Clink, of the regiment, who was in conversation with a friend, an old gentleman, who held a boy in his arms about the age of little Rawdon. This other youngster 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 little Colonel’s age, sir,” continued the corporal.

“His father was a Waterloo man, too,” said the old gentleman, who carried the boy. “Wasn’t he, Georgy?”

“Yes,” said Georgy. He and the little chap on the pony were looking at each other with all their might⁠—solemnly scanning each other as children do.

“In a line regiment,” Clink said with a patronizing air.

“He was a Captain in the —th regiment,” said the old gentleman rather pompously. “Captain George Osborne, sir⁠—perhaps you knew him. He died the death of a hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican tyrant.”

Colonel Crawley blushed quite red. “I knew him very well, sir,” he said, “and his wife, his dear little wife, sir⁠—how is she?”

“She is my daughter, sir,” said the old gentleman, putting down the boy and taking out a card with great solemnity, which he handed to the Colonel. On it written⁠—

“Mr. Sedley, Sole Agent for the Black Diamond and Anti-Cinder Coal Association, Bunker’s Wharf, Thames Street, and Anna-Maria Cottages, Fulham Road West.”

Little Georgy went up and looked at the Shetland pony.

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

“Yes,” said Georgy. The Colonel, who had been looking at him with some interest, took up the child and put him on the pony behind Rawdon minor.

“Take hold of him, Georgy,” he said⁠—“take my little boy round the waist⁠—his name is Rawdon.” And both the children began to laugh.

“You won’t see a prettier pair I