Rawdon made her a tolerable annuity, and we may be
sure that she was a woman who could make a little
money go a great way, as the saying is. He would
have paid his debts on leaving England, could he have
got any Insurance Office to take his life, but the
climate of Coventry Island was so bad that he could
borrow no money on the strength of his salary.
He remitted, however, to his brother punctually,
and wrote to his little boy regularly every mail.
He kept Macmurdo in cigars and sent over quantities
of shells, cayenne pepper, hot pickles, guava jelly,
and colonial produce to Lady Jane. He sent his
brother home the Swamp Town Gazette, in which the new
Governor was praised with immense enthusiasm; whereas
the Swamp Town Sentinel, whose wife was not asked
to Government House, declared that his Excellency
was a tyrant, compared to whom Nero was an enlightened
philanthropist. Little Rawdon used to like to
get the papers and read about his Excellency.
His mother never made any movement to see the child.
He went home to his aunt for Sundays and holidays;
he soon knew every bird’s nest about Queen’s
Crawley, and rode out with Sir Huddlestone’s
hounds, which he admired so on his first well-remembered
visit to Hampshire.
CHAPTER LVI
Georgy is Made a Gentleman
Georgy Osborne was now fairly established in his grandfather’s
mansion in Russell Square, occupant of his father’s
room in the house and heir apparent of all the splendours
there. The good looks, gallant bearing, and
gentlemanlike appearance of the boy won the grandsire’s
heart for him. Mr. Osborne was as proud of him
as ever he had been of the elder George.
The child had many more luxuries and indulgences than
had been awarded his father. Osborne’s
commerce had prospered greatly of late years.
His wealth and importance in the City had very much
increased. He had been glad enough in former
days to put the elder George to a good private school;
and a commission in the army for his son had been
a source of no small pride to him; for little George
and his future prospects the old man looked much higher.
He would make a gentleman of the little chap, was
Mr. Osborne’s constant saying regarding little
Georgy. He saw him in his mind’s eye,
a collegian, a Parliament man, a Baronet, perhaps.
The old man thought he would die contented if he
could see his grandson in a fair way to such honours.
He would have none but a tip-top college man to educate
him—none of your quacks and pretenders—no,
no. A few years before, he used to be savage,
and inveigh against all parsons, scholars, and the
like declaring that they were a pack of humbugs, and
quacks that weren’t fit to get their living but
by grinding Latin and Greek, and a set of supercilious
dogs that pretended to look down upon British merchants
and gentlemen, who could buy up half a hundred of
’em. He would mourn now, in a very solemn
manner, that his own education had been neglected,
and repeatedly point out, in pompous orations to Georgy,
the necessity and excellence of classical acquirements.
