“How much money has he promised you, Briggs?” the old spinster cried out, working herself into a nervous rage—“there now, of course you begin to cry. I hate scenes. Why am I always to be worried? Go and cry up in your own room, and send Firkin to me— no, stop, sit down and blow your nose, and leave off crying, and write a letter to Captain Crawley.” Poor Briggs went and placed herself obediently at the writing-book. Its leaves were blotted all over with relics of the firm, strong, rapid handwriting of the spinster’s late amanuensis, Mrs. Bute Crawley.

“Begin ‘My dear sir,’ or ‘Dear sir,’ that will be better, and say you are desired by Miss Crawley—no, by Miss Crawley’s medical man, by Mr. Creamer, to state that my health is such that all strong emotions would be dangerous in my present delicate condition—and that I must decline any family discussions or interviews whatever. And thank him for coming to Brighton, and so forth, and beg him not to stay any longer on my account. And, Miss Briggs, you may add that I wish him a bon voyage, and that if he will take the trouble to call upon my lawyer’s in Gray’s Inn Square, he will find there a communication for him. Yes, that will do; and that will make him leave Brighton.” The benevolent Briggs penned this sentence with the utmost satisfaction.

“To seize upon me the very day after Mrs. Bute was gone,” the old lady prattled on; “it was too indecent. Briggs, my dear, write to Mrs. Crawley, and say she needn’t come back. No—she needn’t—and she shan’t— and I won’t be a slave in my own house—and I won’t be starved and choked with poison. They all want to kill me —all—all”—and with this the lonely old woman burst into a scream of hysterical tears.

The last scene of her dismal Vanity Fair comedy was fast approaching; the tawdry lamps were going out one by one; and the dark curtain was almost ready to descend.

That final paragraph, which referred Rawdon to Miss Crawley’s solicitor in London, and which Briggs had written so good-naturedly, consoled the dragoon and his wife somewhat, after their first blank disappointment, on reading the spinster’s refusal of a reconciliation. And it effected the purpose for which the old lady had caused it to be written, by making Rawdon very eager to get to London.

Out of Jos’s losings and George Osborne’s bank-notes, he paid his bill at the inn, the landlord whereof does not probably know to this day how doubtfully his account once stood. For, as a general sends his baggage to the rear before an action, Rebecca had wisely packed up all their chief valuables and sent them off under care of George’s servant, who went in charge of the trunks on the coach back to London. Rawdon and his wife returned by the same conveyance next day.

“I should have liked to see the old girl before we went,” Rawdon said. “She looks so cut up and altered that I’m sure she can’t last long. I wonder what sort of a cheque I shall have at Waxy’s. Two hundred—it can’t be less than two hundred—hey, Becky?”

In consequence of the repeated visits of the aides-de- camp of the Sheriff of Middlesex, Rawdon and his wife did not go back to their lodgings at Brompton, but put up at an inn. Early the next morning, Rebecca had an opportunity of seeing them as she skirted that suburb on her road to old Mrs. Sedley’s house at Fulham, whither she went to look for her dear Amelia and her Brighton friends. They were all off to Chatham, thence to Harwich, to take shipping for Belgium with the regiment— kind old Mrs. Sedley very much depressed and tearful, solitary. Returning from this visit, Rebecca found her husband, who had been off to Gray’s Inn, and learnt his fate. He came back furious.

“By Jove, Becky,” says he, “she’s only given me twenty pound!”

Though it told against themselves, the joke was too good, and Becky burst out laughing at Rawdon’s discomfiture.