It is fine weather now. Of evenings on the days
when he does not come, she takes a long walk into
London—yes, as far as Russell Square, and
rests on the stone by the railing of the garden opposite
Mr. Osborne’s house. It is so pleasant and
cool. She can look up and see the drawing-room
windows illuminated, and, at about nine o’clock,
the chamber in the upper story where Georgy sleeps.
She knows—he has told her. She prays
there as the light goes out, prays with an humble
heart, and walks home shrinking and silent. She
is very tired when she comes home. Perhaps she
will sleep the better for that long weary walk, and
she may dream about Georgy.
One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell Square,
at some distance from Mr. Osborne’s house (she
could see it from a distance though) when all the
bells of Sabbath were ringing, and George and his
aunt came out to go to church; a little sweep asked
for charity, and the footman, who carried the books,
tried to drive him away; but Georgy stopped and gave
him money. May God’s blessing be on the
boy! Emmy ran round the square and, coming up
to the sweep, gave him her mite too. All the
bells of Sabbath were ringing, and she followed them
until she came to the Foundling Church, into which
she went. There she sat in a place whence she
could see the head of the boy under his father’s
tombstone. Many hundred fresh children’s
voices rose up there and sang hymns to the Father Beneficent,
and little George’s soul thrilled with delight
at the burst of glorious psalmody. His mother
could not see him for awhile, through the mist that
dimmed her eyes.
CHAPTER LI
In Which a Charade Is Acted Which May or May Not Puzzle
the Reader
After Becky’s appearance at my Lord Steyne’s
private and select parties, the claims of that estimable
woman as regards fashion were settled, and some of
the very greatest and tallest doors in the metropolis
were speedily opened to her—doors so great
and tall that the beloved reader and writer hereof
may hope in vain to enter at them. Dear brethren,
let us tremble before those august portals. I
fancy them guarded by grooms of the chamber with flaming
silver forks with which they prong all those who have
not the right of the entree. They say the honest
newspaper-fellow who sits in the hall and takes down
the names of the great ones who are admitted to the
feasts dies after a little time. He can’t
survive the glare of fashion long. It scorches
him up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted
that poor imprudent Semele—a giddy moth
of a creature who ruined herself by venturing out
of her natural atmosphere. Her myth ought to
be taken to heart amongst the Tyburnians, the Belgravians—her
story, and perhaps Becky’s too. Ah, ladies!—ask
the Reverend Mr. Thurifer if Belgravia is not a sounding
brass and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal. These are
vanities. Even these will pass away. And
some day or other (but it will be after our time,
thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be no better
known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts of
Babylon, and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as
Baker Street, or Tadmor in the wilderness.
