About the little Rawdon, if nothing has been said all this while, it is

because he is hidden upstairs in a garret somewhere, or has crawled

below into the kitchen for companionship. His mother scarcely ever

took notice of him. He passed the days with his French bonne as long

as that domestic remained in Mr. Crawley's family, and when the

Frenchwoman went away, the little fellow, howling in the loneliness of

the night, had compassion taken on him by a housemaid, who took him out

of his solitary nursery into her bed in the garret hard by and

comforted him.

Rebecca, my Lord Steyne, and one or two more were in the drawing-room

taking tea after the opera, when this shouting was heard overhead.

"It's my cherub crying for his nurse," she said. She did not offer to

move to go and see the child. "Don't agitate your feelings by going to

look for him," said Lord Steyne sardonically. "Bah!" replied the other,

with a sort of blush, "he'll cry himself to sleep"; and they fell to

talking about the opera.

Rawdon had stolen off though, to look after his son and heir; and came

back to the company when he found that honest Dolly was consoling the

child. The Colonel's dressing-room was in those upper regions. He

used to see the boy there in private. They had interviews together

every morning when he shaved; Rawdon minor sitting on a box by his

father's side and watching the operation with never-ceasing pleasure.

He and the sire were great friends. The father would bring him

sweetmeats from the dessert and hide them in a certain old epaulet box,

where the child went to seek them, and laughed with joy on discovering

the treasure; laughed, but not too loud: for mamma was below asleep

and must not be disturbed. She did not go to rest till very late and

seldom rose till after noon.

Rawdon bought the boy plenty of picture-books and crammed his nursery

with toys. Its walls were covered with pictures pasted up by the

father's own hand and purchased by him for ready money. When he was

off duty with Mrs. Rawdon in the park, he would sit up here, passing

hours with the boy; who rode on his chest, who pulled his great

mustachios as if they were driving-reins, and spent days with him in

indefatigable gambols. The room was a low room, and once, when the

child was not five years old, his father, who was tossing him wildly up

in his arms, hit the poor little chap's skull so violently against the

ceiling that he almost dropped the child, so terrified was he at the

disaster.

Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous howl--the severity

of the blow indeed authorized that indulgence; but just as he was going

to begin, the father interposed.




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