“What are those?” she said.
“Some books for Georgy,” Amelia replied—I—I
promised them to him at Christmas.”
“Books!” cried the elder lady indignantly,
“Books, when the whole house wants bread!
Books, when to keep you and your son in luxury, and
your dear father out of gaol, I’ve sold every
trinket I had, the India shawl from my back even down
to the very spoons, that our tradesmen mightn’t
insult us, and that Mr. Clapp, which indeed he is
justly entitled, being not a hard landlord, and a civil
man, and a father, might have his rent. Oh,
Amelia! you break my heart with your books and that
boy of 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’s
Jos, deserts his father in his old age; and there’s
George, who might be provided for, and who might be
rich, going to school like a lord, with a gold watch
and chain round his neck—while my dear,
dear old man is without a sh—shilling.”
Hysteric sobs and cries ended Mrs. Sedley’s speech—it
echoed through every room in the small house, whereof
the other female inmates heard every word of the colloquy.
“Oh, Mother, Mother!” cried poor Amelia
in reply. “You told me nothing—I—I
promised him the books. I—I only sold
my shawl this morning. Take the money—take
everything”—and with quivering hands
she took out her silver, and her sovereigns—her
precious golden sovereigns, which she thrust into
the hands of her mother, whence they overflowed and
tumbled, rolling down the stairs.
And then she went into her room, and sank down in
despair and utter misery. She saw it all now.
Her selfishness was sacrificing the boy. But
for her he might have wealth, station, education, and
his father’s place, which the elder George had
forfeited for her sake. She had but to speak
the words, and her father was restored to competency
and the boy raised to fortune. Oh, what a conviction
it was to that tender and stricken heart!
Gaunt House
All the world knows that Lord Steyne’s town
palace stands in Gaunt Square, out of which Great
Gaunt Street leads, whither we first conducted Rebecca,
in the time of the departed Sir Pitt Crawley.
Peering over the railings and through the black trees
into the garden of the Square, you see a few miserable
governesses with wan-faced pupils wandering round
and round it, and round the dreary grass-plot in the
centre of which rises the statue of Lord Gaunt, who
fought at Minden, in a three-tailed wig, and otherwise
habited like a Roman Emperor. Gaunt House occupies
nearly a side of the Square. The remaining three
sides are composed of mansions that have passed away
into dowagerism—tall, dark houses, with
window-frames of stone, or picked out of a lighter
red. Little light seems to be behind those lean,
comfortless casements now, and hospitality to have
