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"
It
is
not
because
it
hurts
me
,
"
little
Rawdon
gasped
out
--
"
only
--
only
"
--
sobs
and
tears
wound
up
the
sentence
in
a
storm
.
It
was
the
little
boy
's
heart
that
was
bleeding
.
"
Why
may
n't
I
hear
her
singing
?
Why
do
n't
she
ever
sing
to
me
--
as
she
does
to
that
baldheaded
man
with
the
large
teeth
?
"
He
gasped
out
at
various
intervals
these
exclamations
of
rage
and
grief
.
The
cook
looked
at
the
housemaid
,
the
housemaid
looked
knowingly
at
the
footman
--
the
awful
kitchen
inquisition
which
sits
in
judgement
in
every
house
and
knows
everything
--
sat
on
Rebecca
at
that
moment
.
After
this
incident
,
the
mother
's
dislike
increased
to
hatred
;
the
consciousness
that
the
child
was
in
the
house
was
a
reproach
and
a
pain
to
her
.
His
very
sight
annoyed
her
.
Fear
,
doubt
,
and
resistance
sprang
up
,
too
,
in
the
boy
's
own
bosom
.
They
were
separated
from
that
day
of
the
boxes
on
the
ear
.
Lord
Steyne
also
heartily
disliked
the
boy
.
When
they
met
by
mischance
,
he
made
sarcastic
bows
or
remarks
to
the
child
,
or
glared
at
him
with
savage-looking
eyes
.
Rawdon
used
to
stare
him
in
the
face
and
double
his
little
fists
in
return
.
He
knew
his
enemy
,
and
this
gentleman
,
of
all
who
came
to
the
house
,
was
the
one
who
angered
him
most
.
One
day
the
footman
found
him
squaring
his
fists
at
Lord
Steyne
's
hat
in
the
hall
.
The
footman
told
the
circumstance
as
a
good
joke
to
Lord
Steyne
's
coachman
;
that
officer
imparted
it
to
Lord
Steyne
's
gentleman
,
and
to
the
servants
'
hall
in
general
.
And
very
soon
afterwards
,
when
Mrs.
Rawdon
Crawley
made
her
appearance
at
Gaunt
House
,
the
porter
who
unbarred
the
gates
,
the
servants
of
all
uniforms
in
the
hall
,
the
functionaries
in
white
waistcoats
,
who
bawled
out
from
landing
to
landing
the
names
of
Colonel
and
Mrs.
Rawdon
Crawley
,
knew
about
her
,
or
fancied
they
did
.
The
man
who
brought
her
refreshment
and
stood
behind
her
chair
,
had
talked
her
character
over
with
the
large
gentleman
in
motley-coloured
clothes
at
his
side
.
Bon
Dieu
!
it
is
awful
,
that
servants
'
inquisition
!
You
see
a
woman
in
a
great
party
in
a
splendid
saloon
,
surrounded
by
faithful
admirers
,
distributing
sparkling
glances
,
dressed
to
perfection
,
curled
,
rouged
,
smiling
and
happy
--
Discovery
walks
respectfully
up
to
her
,
in
the
shape
of
a
huge
powdered
man
with
large
calves
and
a
tray
of
ices
--
with
Calumny
(
which
is
as
fatal
as
truth
)
behind
him
,
in
the
shape
of
the
hulking
fellow
carrying
the
wafer-biscuits
.
Madam
,
your
secret
will
be
talked
over
by
those
men
at
their
club
at
the
public-house
to-night
.
Jeames
will
tell
Chawles
his
notions
about
you
over
their
pipes
and
pewter
beer-pots
.
Some
people
ought
to
have
mutes
for
servants
in
Vanity
Fair
--
mutes
who
could
not
write
.
If
you
are
guilty
,
tremble
.
That
fellow
behind
your
chair
may
be
a
Janissary
with
a
bow-string
in
his
plush
breeches
pocket
.
If
you
are
not
guilty
,
have
a
care
of
appearances
,
which
are
as
ruinous
as
guilt
.
"
Was
Rebecca
guilty
or
not
?
"
the
Vehmgericht
of
tho
servants
'
hall
had
pronounced
against
her
.
And
,
I
shame
to
say
,
she
would
not
have
got
credit
had
they
not
believed
her
to
be
guilty
.
It
was
the
sight
of
the
Marquis
of
Steyne
's
carriage-lamps
at
her
door
,
contemplated
by
Raggles
,
burning
in
the
blackness
of
midnight
,
"
that
kep
him
up
,
"
as
he
afterwards
said
,
that
even
more
than
Rebecca
's
arts
and
coaxings
.
And
so
--
guiltless
very
likely
--
she
was
writhing
and
pushing
onward
towards
what
they
call
"
a
position
in
society
,
"
and
the
servants
were
pointing
at
her
as
lost
and
ruined
.
So
you
see
Molly
,
the
housemaid
,
of
a
morning
,
watching
a
spider
in
the
doorpost
lay
his
thread
and
laboriously
crawl
up
it
,
until
,
tired
of
the
sport
,
she
raises
her
broom
and
sweeps
away
the
thread
and
the
artificer
.
A
day
or
two
before
Christmas
,
Becky
,
her
husband
and
her
son
made
ready
and
went
to
pass
the
holidays
at
the
seat
of
their
ancestors
at
Queen
's
Crawley
.
Becky
would
have
liked
to
leave
the
little
brat
behind
,
and
would
have
done
so
but
for
Lady
Jane
's
urgent
invitations
to
the
youngster
,
and
the
symptoms
of
revolt
and
discontent
which
Rawdon
manifested
at
her
neglect
of
her
son
.
"
He
's
the
finest
boy
in
England
,
"
the
father
said
in
a
tone
of
reproach
to
her
,
"
and
you
do
n't
seem
to
care
for
him
,
Becky
,
as
much
as
you
do
for
your
spaniel
.
He
sha
n't
bother
you
much
;
at
home
he
will
be
away
from
you
in
the
nursery
,
and
he
shall
go
outside
on
the
coach
with
me
.
"
"
Where
you
go
yourself
because
you
want
to
smoke
those
filthy
cigars
,
"
replied
Mrs.
Rawdon
.
"
I
remember
when
you
liked
'em
though
,
"
answered
the
husband
.
