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maid, may be seen dandling Master Omnium in her arms:
whilst Jacob, his papa, is beheld eating prawns, and
devouring the Times for breakfast, at the window below.
Yonder are the Misses Leery, who are looking out for the
young officers of the Heavies, who are pretty sure to be
pacing the cliff; or again it is a City man, with a nautical
turn, and a telescope, the size of a six-pounder, who has
his instrument pointed seawards, so as to command every
pleasure-boat, herring-boat, or bathing-machine that
comes to, or quits, the shore, &c., &c. But have we any
leisure for a description of Brighton?--for Brighton, a
clean Naples with genteel lazzaroni--for Brighton, that
always looks brisk, gay, and gaudy, like a harlequin's
jacket--for Brighton, which used to be seven hours
distant from London at the time of our story; which is now
only a hundred minutes off; and which may approach
who knows how much nearer, unless Joinville comes and
untimely bombards it?
"What a monstrous fine girl that is in the lodgings
over the milliner's," one of these three promenaders
remarked to the other; "Gad, Crawley, did you see what a
wink she gave me as I passed?"
"Don't break her heart, Jos, you rascal," said another.
"Don't trifle with her affections, you Don Juan!"
"Get away," said Jos Sedley, quite pleased, and leering up
at the maid-servant in question with a most killing
ogle. Jos was even more splendid at Brighton than he had
been at his sister's marriage. He had brilliant under-waistcoats,
any one of which would have set up a moderate buck.
He sported a military frock-coat, ornamented with
frogs, knobs, black buttons, and meandering embroidery.
He had affected a military appearance and habits of late;
and he walked with his two friends, who were of that
profession, clinking his boot-spurs, swaggering prodigiously,
and shooting death-glances at all the servant girls
who were worthy to be slain.
"What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return?" the
buck asked. The ladies were out to Rottingdean in his
carriage on a drive.
"Let's have a game at billiards," one of his friends
said--the tall one, with lacquered mustachios.
"No, dammy; no, Captain," Jos replied, rather
alarmed. "No billiards to-day, Crawley, my boy;
yesterday was enough."
"You play very well," said Crawley, laughing. "Don't
he, Osborne? How well he made that-five stroke, eh?"
"Famous," Osborne said. "Jos is a devil of a fellow
at billiards, and at everything else, too. I wish there were
any tiger-hunting about here! we might go and kill a few
before dinner. (There goes a fine girl! what an ankle, eh,
Jos?) Tell us that story about the tiger-hunt, and the
way you did for him in the jungle--it's a wonderful story
that, Crawley." Here George Osborne gave a yawn. "It's
rather slow work," said he, "down here; what shall we
do?"
"Shall we go and look at some horses that Snaffler's
just brought from Lewes fair?" Crawley said.
"Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's,"
and the rogue Jos, willing to kill two birds with one
stone. "Devilish fine gal at Dutton's."
"Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in, it's
just about time?" George said. This advice prevailing
over the stables and the jelly, they turned towards the
coach-office to witness the Lightning's arrival.
As they passed, they met the carriage--Jos Sedley's
open carriage, with its magnificent armorial bearings--
that splendid conveyance in which he used to drive, about
at Cheltonham, majestic and solitary, with his arms
folded, and his hat cocked; or, more happy, with ladies
by his side.
Two were in the carriage now: one a little person, with
light hair, and dressed in the height of the fashion; the
other in a brown silk pelisse, and a straw bonnet with
pink ribbons, with a rosy, round, happy face, that did
you good to behold. She checked the carriage as it
neared the three gentlemen, after which exercise of
authority she looked rather nervous, and then began to
blush most absurdly. "We have had a delightful drive,
George," she said, "and--and we're so glad to come back;
and, Joseph, don't let him be late."
"Don't be leading our husbands into mischief, Mr.
Sedley, you wicked, wicked man you," Rebecca said,
shaking at Jos a pretty little finger covered with the
neatest French kid glove. "No billiards, no smoking, no
naughtiness!"
"My dear Mrs. Crawley--Ah now! upon my honour!"
was all Jos could ejaculate by way of reply; but he managed
to fall into a tolerable attitude, with his head lying
on his shoulder, grinning upwards at his victim, with one
hand at his back, which he supported on his cane, and
the other hand (the one with the diamond ring) fumbling
in his shirt-frill and among his under-waistcoats. As the
carriage drove off he kissed the diamond hand to the fair
ladies within. He wished all Cheltenham, all Chowringhee,
all Calcutta, could see him in that position, waving his
hand to such a beauty, and in company with such a
famous buck as Rawdon Crawley of the Guards.
Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton
as the place where they would pass the first few days after
their marriage; and having engaged apartments at the
Ship Inn, enjoyed themselves there in great comfort and
quietude, until Jos presently joined them. Nor was he
the only companion they found there. As they were
coming into the hotel from a sea-side walk one afternoon,
on whom should they light but Rebecca and her
husband. The recognition was immediate. Rebecca flew
into the arms of her dearest friend. Crawley and Osborne
shook hands together cordially enough: and Becky, in
the course of a very few hours, found means to make the
latter forget that little unpleasant passage of words which
had happened between them. "Do you remember the last
time we met at Miss Crawley's, when I was so rude to
you, dear Captain Osborne? I thought you seemed careless
about dear Amelia. It was that made me angry: and
so pert: and so unkind: and so ungrateful. Do forgive
me!" Rebecca said, and she held out her hand with so
frank and winning a grace, that Osborne could not but
take it. By humbly and frankly acknowledging yourself to
be in the wrong, there is no knowing, my son, what good
you may do. I knew once a gentleman and very worthy
practitioner in Vanity Fair, who used to do little wrongs
to his neighbours on purpose, and in order to apologise
for them in an open and manly way afterwards--and
what ensued? My friend Crocky Doyle was liked everywhere,
and deemed to be rather impetuous--but the honestest
fellow. Becky's humility passed for sincerity with
George Osborne.
These two young couples had plenty of tales to relate
to each other. The marriages of either were discussed;
and their prospects in life canvassed with the greatest
frankness and interest on both sides. George's marriage
was to be made known to his father by his friend
Captain Dobbin; and young Osborne trembled rather for the
result of that communication. Miss Crawley, on whom
all Rawdon's hopes depended, still held out. Unable to
make an entry into her house in Park Lane, her
affectionate nephew and niece had followed her to
Brighton, where they had emissaries continually planted
at her door.
"I wish you could see some of Rawdon's friends who
are always about our door," Rebecca said, laughing. "Did
you ever see a dun, my dear; or a bailiff and his man?
Two of the abominable wretches watched all last week
at the greengrocer's opposite, and we could not get away
until Sunday. If Aunty does not relent, what shall we
do?"
Rawdon, with roars of laughter, related a dozen amusing
anecdotes of his duns, and Rebecca's adroit treatment
of them. He vowed with a great oath that there was
no woman in Europe who could talk a creditor over as
she could. Almost immediately after their marriage, her
practice had begun, and her husband found the immense
value of such a wife. They had credit in plenty, but they
had bills also in abundance, and laboured under a scarcity
of ready money. Did these debt-difficulties affect Rawdon's
good spirits? No. Everybody in Vanity Fair must
have remarked how well those live who are comfortably
and thoroughly in debt: how they deny themselves nothing;
how jolly and easy they are in their minds. Rawdon
and his wife had the very best apartments at the inn at
Brighton; the landlord, as he brought in the first dish,
bowed before them as to his greatest customers: and
Rawdon abused the dinners and wine with an audacity
which no grandee in the land could surpass. Long custom,
a manly appearance, faultless boots and clothes,
and a happy fierceness of manner, will often help a man
as much as a great balance at the banker's.
The two wedding parties met constantly in each other's
apartments. After two or three nights the gentlemen of an
evening had a little piquet, as their wives sate and chatted
apart. This pastime, and the arrival of Jos Sedley, who
made his appearance in his grand open carriage, and who
played a few games at billiards with Captain Crawley,
replenished Rawdon's purse somewhat, and gave him the
benefit of that ready money for which the greatest spirits
are sometimes at a stand-still.
So the three gentlemen walked down to see the Lightning
coach come in. Punctual to the minute, the coach
crowded inside and out, the guard blowing his accustomed
tune on the horn--the Lightning came tearing
down the street, and pulled up at the coach-office.
"Hullo! there's old Dobbin," George cried, quite delighted
to see his old friend perched on the roof; and
whose promised visit to Brighton had been delayed until
now. "How are you, old fellow? Glad you're come down.
Emmy'll be delighted to see you," Osborne said, shaking
his comrade warmly by the hand as soon as his descent
from the vehicle was effected--and then he added, in a
lower and agitated voice, "What's the news? Have you
been in Russell Square? What does the governor say?
Tell me everything."
Dobbin looked very pale and grave. "I've seen your
father," said he. "How's Amelia--Mrs. George? I'll tell
you all the news presently: but I've brought the great
news of all: and that is--"
"Out with it, old fellow," George said.
"We're ordered to Belgium. All the army goes--guards
and all. Heavytop's got the gout, and is mad at not being
able to move. O'Dowd goes in command, and we embark
from Chatham next week." This news of war could
not but come with a shock upon our lovers, and caused
all these gentlemen to look very serious.
CHAPTER XXIII
Captain Dobbin Proceeds on His Canvass
What is the secret mesmerism which friendship
possesses, and under the operation of which a person
ordinarily sluggish, or cold, or timid, becomes wise,
active, and resolute, in another's behalf? As Alexis,
after a few passes from Dr. Elliotson, despises pain,
reads with the back of his head, sees miles off,
looks into next week, and performs other wonders,
of which, in his own private normal condition, he is
quite incapable; so you see, in the affairs of the world
and under the magnetism of friendships, the modest
man becomes bold, the shy confident, the lazy active, or
the impetuous prudent and peaceful. What is it, on the
other hand, that makes the lawyer eschew his own cause,
and call in his learned brother as an adviser? And what causes
the doctor, when ailing, to send for his rival, and not sit
down and examine his own tongue in the chimney Bass,
or write his own prescription at his study-table? I throw
out these queries for intelligent readers to answer, who
know, at once, how credulous we are, and how sceptical,
how soft and how obstinate, how firm for others and how
diffident about ourselves: meanwhile, it is certain that
our friend William Dobbin, who was personally of so
complying a disposition that if his parents had pressed
him much, it is probable he would have stepped down
into the kitchen and married the cook, and who, to further
his own interests, would have found the most insuperable
difficulty in walking across the street, found himself as
busy and eager in the conduct of George Osborne's
affairs, as the most selfish tactician could be in the pursuit
of his own.
Whilst our friend George and his young wife were
enjoying the first blushing days of the honeymoon at
Brighton, honest William was left as George's plenipotentiary
in London, to transact all the business part of the marriage.
His duty it was to call upon old Sedley and his
wife, and to keep the former in good humour: to draw Jos
and his brother-in-law nearer together, so that Jos's position
and dignity, as collector of Boggley Wollah, might
compensate for his father's loss of station, and tend to
reconcile old Osborne to the alliance: and finally, to
communicate it to the latter in such a way as should least
irritate the old gentleman.
Now, before he faced the head of the Osborne house
with the news which it was his duty to tell, Dobbin bethought
him that it would be politic to make friends of the
rest of the family, and, if possible, have the ladies on his
side. They can't be angry in their hearts, thought he. No
woman ever was really angry at a romantic marriage. A
little crying out, and they must come round to their
brother; when the three of us will lay siege to old Mr.
Osborne. So this Machiavellian captain of infantry cast
about him for some happy means or stratagem by which
he could gently and gradually bring the Misses Osborne
to a knowledge of their brother's secret.
By a little inquiry regarding his mother's engagements,
he was pretty soon able to find out by whom of her ladyship's friends parties were given at that season; where
he would be likely to meet Osborne's sisters; and, though
he had that abhorrence of routs and evening parties
which many sensible men, alas! entertain, he soon found
one where the Misses Osborne were to be present.
Making his appearance at the ball, where he danced a couple
of sets with both of them, and was prodigiously polite, he
actually had the courage to ask Miss Osborne for a few
minutes' conversation at an early hour the next day, when
he had, he said, to communicate to her news of the
very greatest interest.
What was it that made her start back, and gaze upon
him for a moment, and then on the ground at her feet,
and make as if she would faint on his arm, had he not by
opportunely treading on her toes, brought the young lady
back to self-control? Why was she so violently agitated
at Dobbin's request? This can never be known. But when
he came the next day, Maria was not in the drawing-room
with her sister, and Miss Wirt went off for the purpose
of fetching the latter, and the Captain and Miss Osborne
were left together. They were both so silent that the ticktock
of the Sacrifice of Iphigenia clock on the mantelpiece
became quite rudely audible.
"What a nice party it was last night," Miss Osborne at
length began, encouragingly; "and--and how you're
improved in your dancing, Captain Dobbin. Surely somebody
has taught you," she added, with amiable archness.
"You should see me dance a reel with Mrs. Major
O'Dowd of ours; and a jig--did you ever see a jig? But
I think anybody could dance with you, Miss Osborne,
who dance so well."
"Is the Major's lady young and beautiful, Captain?" the
fair questioner continued. "Ah, what a terrible thing it
must be to be a soldier's wife! I wonder they have any
spirits to dance, and in these dreadful times of war, too!
O Captain Dobbin, I tremble sometimes when I think of
our dearest George, and the dangers of the poor soldier.
Are there many married officers of the --th, Captain
Dobbin?"
"Upon my word, she's playing her hand rather too
openly," Miss Wirt thought; but this observation is merely parenthetic, and was not heard through the crevice of
the door at which the governess uttered it.
"One of our young men is just married," Dobbin said,
now coming to the point. "It was a very old attachment,
and the young couple are as poor as church mice."
"O, how delightful! O, how romantic!" Miss Osborne
cried, as the Captain said "old attachment" and "poor."
Her sympathy encouraged him.
"The finest young fellow in the regiment," he continued.
"Not a braver or handsomer officer in the army; and
such a charming wife! How you would like her! how
you will like her when you know her, Miss Osborne." The
young lady thought the actual moment had arrived, and
that Dobbin's nervousness which now came on and was
visible in many twitchings of his face, in his manner of
beating the ground with his great feet, in the rapid
buttoning and unbuttoning of his frock-coat, &c.--Miss
Osborne, I say, thought that when he had given himself a
little air, he would unbosom himself entirely, and
prepared eagerly to listen. And the clock, in the altar on
which Iphigenia was situated, beginning, after a preparatory convulsion, to toll twelve, the mere tolling seemed
as if it would last until one--so prolonged was the knell
to the anxious spinster.
"But it's not about marriage that I came to speak--
that is that marriage--that is--no, I mean--my dear
Miss Osborne, it's about our dear friend George,"
Dobbin said.
"About George?" she said in a tone so discomfited
that Maria and Miss Wirt laughed at the other side of
the door, and even that abandoned wretch of a Dobbin
felt inclined to smile himself; for he was not altogether
unconscious of the state of affairs: George having often
bantered him gracefully and said, "Hang it, Will, why
don't you take old Jane? She'll have you if you ask her.
I'll bet you five to two she will."
"Yes, about George, then," he continued. "There has
been a difference between him and Mr. Osborne. And I
regard him so much--for you know we have been like
brothers--that I hope and pray the quarrel may be
settled. We must go abroad, Miss Osborne. We may be
ordered off at a day's warning. Who knows what may
happen in the campaign? Don't be agitated, dear Miss
Osborne; and those two at least should part friends."
"There has been no quarrel, Captain Dobbin, except
a little usual scene with Papa," the lady said. "We are
expecting George back daily. What Papa wanted was only
for his good. He has but to come back, and I'm sure all
will be well; and dear Rhoda, who went away from here
in sad sad anger, I know will forgive him. Woman forgives
but too readily, Captain."
"Such an angel as YOU I am sure would," Mr. Dobbin
said, with atrocious astuteness. "And no man can pardon
himself for giving a woman pain. What would you feel,
if a man were faithless to you?"
"I should perish--I should throw myself out of window--
I should take poison--I should pine and die. I
know I should," Miss cried, who had nevertheless gone
through one or two affairs of the heart without any idea
of suicide.
"And there are others," Dobbin continued, "as true
and as kind-hearted as yourself. I'm not speaking about
the West Indian heiress, Miss Osborne, but about a poor
girl whom George once loved, and who was bred from
her childhood to think of nobody but him. I've seen her
in her poverty uncomplaining, broken-hearted, without a
fault. It is of Miss Sedley I speak. Dear Miss Osborne,
can your generous heart quarrel with your brother for
being faithful to her? Could his own conscience ever
forgive him if he deserted her? Be her friend--she always
loved you--and--and I am come here charged by George
to tell you that he holds his engagement to her as the
most sacred duty he has; and to entreat you, at least,
to be on his side."
When any strong emotion took possession of Mr. Dobbin,
and after the first word or two of hesitation, he could
speak with perfect fluency, and it was evident that his
eloquence on this occasion made some impression upon
the lady whom he addressed.
"Well," said she, "this is--most surprising--most painful--
most extraordinary--what will Papa say?--that
George should fling away such a superb establishment as
was offered to him but at any rate he has found a very
brave champion in you, Captain Dobbin. It is of no use,
however," she continued, after a pause; "I feel for poor
Miss Sedley, most certainly--most sincerely, you know.
We never thought the match a good one, though we were
always very kind to her here--very. But Papa will never
consent, I am sure. And a well brought up young woman,
you know--with a well-regulated mind, must--George
must give her up, dear Captain Dobbin, indeed he must."
"Ought a man to give up the woman he loved, just
when misfortune befell her?" Dobbin said, holding out
his hand. "Dear Miss Osborne, is this the counsel I hear
from you? My dear young lady! you must befriend her.
He can't give her up. He must not give her up. Would a
man, think you, give YOU up if you were poor?"
This adroit question touched the heart of Miss Jane
Osborne not a little. "I don't know whether we poor girls
ought to believe what you men say, Captain," she said.
"There is that in woman's tenderness which induces her
to believe too easily. I'm afraid you are cruel, cruel
deceivers,"--and Dobbin certainly thought he felt a
pressure of the hand which Miss Osborne had extended
to him.
He dropped it in some alarm. "Deceivers!" said he.
"No, dear Miss Osborne, all men are not; your brother
is not; George has loved Amelia Sedley ever since they
were children; no wealth would make him marry any but
her. Ought he to forsake her? Would you counsel him to
do so?"
What could Miss Jane say to such a question, and with
her own peculiar views? She could not answer it, so she
parried it by saying, "Well, if you are not a deceiver, at
least you are very romantic"; and Captain William let
this observation pass without challenge.
At length when, by the help of farther polite speeches,
he deemed that Miss Osborne was sufficiently prepared to
receive the whole news, he poured it into her ear.
"George could not give up Amelia--George was married
to her"--and then he related the circumstances of the
marriage as we know them already: how the poor girl
would have died had not her lover kept his faith: how
Old Sedley had refused all consent to the match, and a
licence had been got: and Jos Sedley had come from
Cheltenham to give away the bride: how they had gone
to Brighton in Jos's chariot-and-four to pass the honeymoon:
and how George counted on his dear kind sisters to
befriend him with their father, as women--so true
and tender as they were--assuredly would do. And so,
asking permission (readily granted) to see her again, and
rightly conjecturing that the news he had brought would
be told in the next five minutes to the other ladies,
Captain Dobbin made his bow and took his leave.
He was scarcely out of the house, when Miss Maria
and Miss Wirt rushed in to Miss Osborne, and the
whole wonderful secret was imparted to them by that
lady. To do them justice, neither of the sisters was very
much displeased. There is something about a runaway
match with which few ladies can be seriously angry, and
Amelia rather rose in their estimation, from the spirit
which she had displayed in consenting to the union. As
they debated the story, and prattled about it, and wondered
what Papa would do and say, came a loud knock,
as of an avenging thunder-clap, at the door, which made
these conspirators start. It must be Papa, they thought.
But it was not he. It was only Mr. Frederick Bullock,
who had come from the City according to appointment,
to conduct the ladies to a flower-show.
This gentleman, as may be imagined, was not kept
long in ignorance of the secret. But his face, when he
heard it, showed an amazement which was very different
to that look of sentimental wonder which the countenances
of the sisters wore. Mr. Bullock was a man of the world,
and a junior partner of a wealthy firm. He knew what
money was, and the value of it: and a delightful throb
of expectation lighted up his little eyes, and caused him
to smile on his Maria, as he thought that by this piece
of folly of Mr. George's she might be worth thirty
thousand pounds more than he had ever hoped to
get with her.
"Gad! Jane," said he, surveying even the elder sister
with some interest, "Eels will be sorry he cried off. You
may be a fifty thousand pounder yet."
The sisters had never thought of the money question
up to that moment, but Fred Bullock bantered them
with graceful gaiety about it during their forenoon's
excursion; and they had risen not a little in their own
esteem by the time when, the morning amusement over,
they drove back to dinner. And do not let my respected
reader exclaim against this selfishness as unnatural. It
was but this present morning, as he rode on the omnibus
from Richmond; while it changed horses, this present
chronicler, being on the roof, marked three little children
playing in a puddle below, very dirty, and friendly, and
happy. To these three presently came another little one.
"POLLY," says she, "YOUR SISTER'S GOT A PENNY." At which
the children got up from the puddle instantly, and ran
off to pay their court to Peggy. And as the omnibus drove
off I saw Peggy with the infantine procession at her
tail, marching with great dignity towards the stall of a
neighbouring lollipop-woman.
CHAPTER XXIV
In Which Mr. Osborne Takes Down the Family Bible
So having prepared the sisters, Dobbin hastened away
to the City to perform the rest and more difficult part
of the task which he had undertaken. The idea of facing
old Osborne rendered him not a little nervous, and more
than once he thought of leaving the young ladies to
communicate the secret, which, as he was aware, they could
not long retain. But he had promised to report to George
upon the manner in which the elder Osborne bore the
intelligence; so going into the City to the paternal
counting-house in Thames Street, he despatched thence
a note to Mr. Osborne begging for a half-hour's conversation
relative to the affairs of his son George. Dobbin's messenger
returned from Mr. Osborne's house of business, with the
compliments of the latter, who would be very happy to see the
Captain immediately, and away accordingly Dobbin went
to confront him.
The Captain, with a half-guilty secret to confess, and
with the prospect of a painful and stormy interview
before him, entered Mr. Osborne's offices with a most
dismal countenance and abashed gait, and, passing through
the outer room where Mr. Chopper presided, was greeted
by that functionary from his desk with a waggish air
which farther discomfited him. Mr. Chopper winked and
nodded and pointed his pen towards his patron's door,
and said, "You'll find the governor all right," with the
most provoking good humour.
Osborne rose too, and shook him heartily by the hand,
and said, "How do, my dear boy?" with a cordiality that
made poor George's ambassador feel doubly guilty. His
hand lay as if dead in the old gentleman's grasp. He felt
that he, Dobbin, was more or less the cause of all that
had happened. It was he had brought back George to
Amelia: it was he had applauded, encouraged, transacted
almost the marriage which he was come to reveal to
George's father: and the latter was receiving him with
smiles of welcome; patting him on the shoulder, and calling
him "Dobbin, my dear boy." The envoy had indeed
good reason to hang his head.
Osborne fully believed that Dobbin had come to
announce his son's surrender. Mr. Chopper and his
principal were talking over the matter between George and
his father, at the very moment when Dobbin's messenger
arrived. Both agreed that George was sending in his
submission. Both had been expecting it for some days--and
"Lord! Chopper, what a marriage we'll have!" Mr.
Osborne said to his clerk, snapping his big fingers, and
jingling all the guineas and shillings in his great pockets
as he eyed his subordinate with a look of triumph.
With similar operations conducted in both pockets,
and a knowing jolly air, Osborne from his chair regarded
Dobbin seated blank and silent opposite to him. "What
a bumpkin he is for a Captain in the army," old Osborne
thought. "I wonder George hasn't taught him better
manners."
At last Dobbin summoned courage to begin. "Sir," said
he, "I've brought you some very grave news. I have been
at the Horse Guards this morning, and there's no doubt
that our regiment will be ordered abroad, and on its
way to Belgium before the week is over. And you know,
sir, that we shan't be home again before a tussle which
may be fatal to many of us."
Osborne looked grave. "My s-- , the regiment will
do its duty, sir, I daresay," he said.
"The French are very strong, sir," Dobbin went on.
"The Russians and Austrians will be a long time before
they can bring their troops down. We shall have the first
of the fight, sir; and depend on it Boney will take care
that it shall be a hard one."
"What are you driving at, Dobbin?" his interlocutor
said, uneasy and with a scowl. "I suppose no Briton's
afraid of any d-- Frenchman, hey?"
"I only mean, that before we go, and considering the
great and certain risk that hangs over every one of us--
if there are any differences between you and George--it
would be as well, sir, that--that you should shake hands:
wouldn't it? Should anything happen to him, I think you
would never forgive yourself if you hadn't parted in
charity."
As he said this, poor William Dobbin blushed crimson,
and felt and owned that he himself was a traitor. But
for him, perhaps, this severance need never have taken
place. Why had not George's marriage been delayed?
What call was there to press it on so eagerly? He felt that
George would have parted from Amelia at any rate without
a mortal pang. Amelia, too, MIGHT have recovered the
shock of losing him. It was his counsel had brought
about this marriage, and all that was to ensue from it.
And why was it? Because he loved her so much that he
could not bear to see her unhappy: or because his own
sufferings of suspense were so unendurable that he was
glad to crush them at once--as we hasten a funeral
after a death, or, when a separation from those we love
is imminent, cannot rest until the parting be over.
"You are a good fellow, William," said Mr. Osborne in
a softened voice; "and me and George shouldn't part in
anger, that is true. Look here. I've done for him as
much as any father ever did. He's had three times as
much money from me, as I warrant your father ever
gave you. But I don't brag about that. How I've toiled
for him, and worked and employed my talents and energy,
I won't say. Ask Chopper. Ask himself. Ask the City of
London. Well, I propose to him such a marriage as any
nobleman in the land might be proud of--the only thing
in life I ever asked him--and he refuses me. Am I wrong?
Is the quarrel of MY making? What do I seek but his
good, for which I've been toiling like a convict ever since
he was born? Nobody can say there's anything selfish in
me. Let him come back. I say, here's my hand. I say,
forget and forgive. As for marrying now, it's out of the
question. Let him and Miss S. make it up, and make out the
marriage afterwards, when he comes back a Colonel;
for he shall be a Colonel, by G-- he shall, if money
can do it. I'm glad you've brought him round. I know it's
you, Dobbin. You've took him out of many a scrape
before. Let him come. I shan't be hard. Come along, and
dine in Russell Square to-day: both of you. The old shop,
the old hour. You'll find a neck of venison, and no
questions asked."
This praise and confidence smote Dobbin's heart very
keenly. Every moment the colloquy continued in this
tone, he felt more and more guilty. "Sir," said he, "I
fear you deceive yourself. I am sure you do. George is
much too high-minded a man ever to marry for money. A
threat on your part that you would disinherit him in
case of disobedience would only be followed by resistance
on his."
"Why, hang it, man, you don't call offering him eight
or ten thousand a year threatening him?'' Mr. Osborne
said, with still provoking good humour. "'Gad, if Miss
S. will have me, I'm her man. I ain't particular about a
shade or so of tawny." And the old gentleman gave his
knowing grin and coarse laugh.
"You forget, sir, previous engagements into which
Captain Osborne had entered," the ambassador said, gravely.
"What engagements? What the devil do you mean?
You don't mean," Mr. Osborne continued, gathering
wrath and astonishment as the thought now first came
upon him; "you don't mean that he's such a d-- fool
as to be still hankering after that swindling old bankrupt's
daughter? You've not come here for to make me
suppose that he wants to marry HER? Marry HER, that IS
a good one. My son and heir marry a beggar's girl out of
a gutter. D-- him, if he does, let him buy a broom
and sweep a crossing. She was always dangling and ogling
after him, I recollect now; and I've no doubt she was
put on by her old sharper of a father."
"Mr. Sedley was your very good friend, sir," Dobbin
interposed, almost pleased at finding himself growing
angry. "Time was you called him better names than
rogue and swindler. The match was of your making.
George had no right to play fast and loose--"
"Fast and loose!" howled out old Osborne. "Fast and
loose! Why, hang me, those are the very words my
gentleman used himself when he gave himself airs, last
Thursday was a fortnight, and talked about the British army
to his father who made him. What, it's you who have
been a setting of him up--is it? and my service to you,
CAPTAIN. It's you who want to introduce beggars into my
family. Thank you for nothing, Captain. Marry HER indeed
--he, he! why should he? I warrant you she'd go to him
fast enough without."
"Sir," said Dobbin, starting up in undisguised anger;
"no man shall abuse that lady in my hearing, and you
least of all."
"O, you're a-going to call me out, are you? Stop, let me
ring the bell for pistols for two. Mr. George sent you
here to insult his father, did he?" Osborne said, pulling
at the bell-cord.
"Mr. Osborne," said Dobbin, with a faltering voice,
"it's you who are insulting the best creature in the world.
You had best spare her, sir, for she's your son's wife."
And with this, feeling that he could say no more, Dobbin
went away, Osborne sinking back in his chair, and
looking wildly after him. A clerk came in, obedient to the
bell; and the Captain was scarcely out of the court where
Mr. Osborne's offices were, when Mr. Chopper the chief
clerk came rushing hatless after him.
"For God's sake, what is it?" Mr. Chopper said, catching
the Captain by the skirt. "The governor's in a fit.
What has Mr. George been doing?"
"He married Miss Sedley five days ago," Dobbin replied.
"I was his groomsman, Mr. Chopper, and you must
stand his friend."
The old clerk shook his head. "If that's your news,
Captain, it's bad. The governor will never forgive him."
Dobbin begged Chopper to report progress to him at
the hotel where he was stopping, and walked off moodily
westwards, greatly perturbed as to the past and the
future.
When the Russell Square family came to dinner that
evening, they found the father of the house seated in his
usual place, but with that air of gloom on his face, which,
whenever it appeared there, kept the whole circle silent.
The ladies, and Mr. Bullock who dined with them, felt
that the news had been communicated to Mr. Osborne.
His dark looks affected Mr. Bullock so far as to render
him still and quiet: but he was unusually bland and
attentive to Miss Maria, by whom he sat, and to her sister
presiding at the head of the table.
Miss Wirt, by consequence, was alone on her side of
the board, a gap being left between her and Miss Jane
Osborne. Now this was George's place when he dined at
home; and his cover, as we said, was laid for him in
expectation of that truant's return. Nothing occurred
during dinner-time except smiling Mr. Frederick's flagging
confidential whispers, and the clinking of plate and china,
to interrupt the silence of the repast. The servants went
about stealthily doing their duty. Mutes at funerals could
not look more glum than the domestics of Mr. Osborne
The neck of venison of which he had invited Dobbin to
partake, was carved by him in perfect silence; but his
own share went away almost untasted, though he drank
much, and the butler assiduously filled his glass.
At last, just at the end of the dinner, his eyes, which
had been staring at everybody in turn, fixed themselves
for a while upon the plate laid for George. He pointed
to it presently with his left hand. His daughters looked at
him and did not comprehend, or choose to comprehend,
the signal; nor did the servants at first understand it.
"Take that plate away," at last he said, getting up with
an oath--and with this pushing his chair back, he walked
into his own room.
Behind Mr. Osborne's dining-room was the usual
apartment which went in his house by the name of the
study; and was sacred to the master of the house. Hither
Mr. Osborne would retire of a Sunday forenoon when
not minded to go to church; and here pass the morning
in his crimson leather chair, reading the paper. A couple
of glazed book-cases were here, containing standard
works in stout gilt bindings. The "Annual Register," the
"Gentleman's Magazine," "Blair's Sermons," and "Hume
and Smollett." From year's end to year's end he never
took one of these volumes from the shelf; but there was
no member of the family that would dare for his life to
touch one of the books, except upon those rare Sunday
evenings when there was no dinner-party, and when the
great scarlet Bible and Prayer-book were taken out from
the corner where they stood beside his copy of the Peerage,
and the servants being rung up to the dining parlour,
Osborne read the evening service to his family in a
loud grating pompous voice. No member of the household,
child, or domestic, ever entered that room without
a certain terror. Here he checked the housekeeper's accounts,
and overhauled the butler's cellar-book. Hence he
could command, across the clean gravel court-yard, the
back entrance of the stables with which one of his bells
communicated, and into this yard the coachman issued
from his premises as into a dock, and Osborne swore at
him from the study window. Four times a year Miss
Wirt entered this apartment to get her salary; and his
daughters to receive their quarterly allowance. George
as a boy had been horsewhipped in this room many
times; his mother sitting sick on the stair listening to the
cuts of the whip. The boy was scarcely ever known to
cry under the punishment; the poor woman used to
fondle and kiss him secretly, and give him money to
soothe him when he came out.
There was a picture of the family over the mantelpiece,
removed thither from the front room after Mrs. Osborne's
death--George was on a pony, the elder sister
holding him up a bunch of flowers; the younger led by
her mother's hand; all with red cheeks and large red
mouths, simpering on each other in the approved family-
portrait manner. The mother lay underground now, long
since forgotten--the sisters and brother had a hundred
different interests of their own, and, familiar still, were
utterly estranged from each other. Some few score of
years afterwards, when all the parties represented are
grown old, what bitter satire there is in those flaunting
childish family-portraits, with their farce of sentiment and
smiling lies, and innocence so self-conscious and self-
satisfied. Osborne's own state portrait, with that of his
great silver inkstand and arm-chair, had taken the place
of honour in the dining-room, vacated by the family-
piece.
To this study old Osborne retired then, greatly to the
relief of the small party whom he left. When the
servants had withdrawn, they began to talk for a while
volubly but very low; then they went upstairs quietly,
Mr. Bullock accompanying them stealthily on his creaking
shoes. He had no heart to sit alone drinking wine,
and so close to the terrible old gentleman in the study
hard at hand.
An hour at least after dark, the butler, not having
received any summons, ventured to tap at his door and
take him in wax candles and tea. The master of the
house sate in his chair, pretending to read the paper,
and when the servant, placing the lights and refreshment
on the table by him, retired, Mr. Osborne got up and
locked the door after him. This time there was no mistaking
the matter; all the household knew that some great
catastrophe was going to happen which was likely direly
to affect Master George.
In the large shining mahogany escritoire Mr. Osborne
had a drawer especially devoted to his son's affairs and
papers. Here he kept all the documents relating to him
ever since he had been a boy: here were his prize copy-
books and drawing-books, all bearing George's hand,
and that of the master: here were his first letters in large
round-hand sending his love to papa and mamma, and
conveying his petitions for a cake. His dear godpapa
Sedley was more than once mentioned in them. Curses
quivered on old Osborne's livid lips, and horrid hatred
and disappointment writhed in his heart, as looking
through some of these papers he came on that name.
They were all marked and docketed, and tied with red tape.
It was--From Georgy, requesting 5s., April 23, 18--;
answered, April 25"--or "Georgy about a pony, October
13"--and so forth. In another packet were "Dr. S.'s accounts"
--"G.'s tailor's bills and outfits, drafts on me by
G. Osborne, jun.," &c.--his letters from the West Indies
--his agent's letters, and the newspapers containing his
commissions: here was a whip he had when a boy, and in
a paper a locket containing his hair, which his mother
used to wear.
Turning one over after another, and musing over these
memorials, the unhappy man passed many hours. His
dearest vanities, ambitious hopes, had all been here. What
pride he had in his boy! He was the handsomest child
ever seen. Everybody said he was like a nobleman's
son. A royal princess had remarked him, and kissed
him, and asked his name in Kew Gardens. What City
man could show such another? Could a prince have been
better cared for? Anything that money could buy had
been his son's. He used to go down on speech-days with
four horses and new liveries, and scatter new shillings
among the boys at the school where George was: when
he went with George to the depot of his regiment, before
the boy embarked for Canada, he gave the officers
such a dinner as the Duke of York might have sat down
to. Had he ever refused a bill when George drew one?
There they were--paid without a word. Many a general
in the army couldn't ride the horses he had! He had the
child before his eyes, on a hundred different days when
he remembered George after dinner, when he used
to come in as bold as a lord and drink off his glass by
his father's side, at the head of the table--on the pony
at Brighton, when he cleared the hedge and kept up with
the huntsman--on the day when he was presented to
the Prince Regent at the levee, when all Saint James's
couldn't produce a finer young fellow. And this, this was
the end of all!--to marry a bankrupt and fly in the face
of duty and fortune! What humiliation and fury: what
pangs of sickening rage, balked ambition and love; what
wounds of outraged vanity, tenderness even, had this
old worldling now to suffer under!
Having examined these papers, and pondered over this
one and the other, in that bitterest of all helpless woe,
with which miserable men think of happy past times--
George's father took the whole of the documents out of
the drawer in which he had kept them so long, and locked
them into a writing-box, which he tied, and sealed with
his seal. Then he opened the book-case, and took down
the great red Bible we have spoken of a pompous
book, seldom looked at, and shining all over with gold.
There was a frontispiece to the volume, representing
Abraham sacrificing Isaac. Here, according to custom,
Osborne had recorded on the fly-leaf, and in his large
clerk-like hand, the dates of his marriage and his wife's
death, and the births and Christian names of his children.
Jane came first, then George Sedley Osborne, then Maria
Frances, and the days of the christening of each. Taking
a pen, he carefully obliterated George's names from
the page; and when the leaf was quite dry, restored the
volume to the place from which he had moved it. Then
he took a document out of another drawer, where his
own private papers were kept; and having read it, crumpled
it up and lighted it at one of the candles, and saw it
burn entirely away in the grate. It was his will; which
being burned, he sate down and wrote off a letter, and
rang for his servant, whom he charged to deliver it in the
morning. It was morning already: as he went up to bed,
the whole house was alight with the sunshine; and the
birds were singing among the fresh green leaves in
Russell Square.
Anxious to keep all Mr. Osborne's family and dependants
in good humour, and to make as many friends as
possible for George in his hour of adversity, William Dobbin,
who knew the effect which good dinners and good
wines have upon the soul of man, wrote off immediately
on his return to his inn the most hospitable of invitations
to Thomas Chopper, Esquire, begging that gentleman to
dine with him at the Slaughters' next day. The note
reached Mr. Chopper before he left the City, and the
instant reply was, that "Mr. Chopper presents his
respectful compliments, and will have the honour and
pleasure of waiting on Captain D." The invitation and the
rough draft of the answer were shown to Mrs. Chopper
and her daughters on his return to Somers' Town that
evening, and they talked about military gents and West
End men with great exultation as the family sate and
partook of tea. When the girls had gone to rest, Mr. and
Mrs. C. discoursed upon the strange events which were
occurring in the governor's family. Never had the clerk
seen his principal so moved. When he went in to Mr.
whilst Jacob, his papa, is beheld eating prawns, and
devouring the Times for breakfast, at the window below.
Yonder are the Misses Leery, who are looking out for the
young officers of the Heavies, who are pretty sure to be
pacing the cliff; or again it is a City man, with a nautical
turn, and a telescope, the size of a six-pounder, who has
his instrument pointed seawards, so as to command every
pleasure-boat, herring-boat, or bathing-machine that
comes to, or quits, the shore, &c., &c. But have we any
leisure for a description of Brighton?--for Brighton, a
clean Naples with genteel lazzaroni--for Brighton, that
always looks brisk, gay, and gaudy, like a harlequin's
jacket--for Brighton, which used to be seven hours
distant from London at the time of our story; which is now
only a hundred minutes off; and which may approach
who knows how much nearer, unless Joinville comes and
untimely bombards it?
"What a monstrous fine girl that is in the lodgings
over the milliner's," one of these three promenaders
remarked to the other; "Gad, Crawley, did you see what a
wink she gave me as I passed?"
"Don't break her heart, Jos, you rascal," said another.
"Don't trifle with her affections, you Don Juan!"
"Get away," said Jos Sedley, quite pleased, and leering up
at the maid-servant in question with a most killing
ogle. Jos was even more splendid at Brighton than he had
been at his sister's marriage. He had brilliant under-waistcoats,
any one of which would have set up a moderate buck.
He sported a military frock-coat, ornamented with
frogs, knobs, black buttons, and meandering embroidery.
He had affected a military appearance and habits of late;
and he walked with his two friends, who were of that
profession, clinking his boot-spurs, swaggering prodigiously,
and shooting death-glances at all the servant girls
who were worthy to be slain.
"What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return?" the
buck asked. The ladies were out to Rottingdean in his
carriage on a drive.
"Let's have a game at billiards," one of his friends
said--the tall one, with lacquered mustachios.
"No, dammy; no, Captain," Jos replied, rather
alarmed. "No billiards to-day, Crawley, my boy;
yesterday was enough."
"You play very well," said Crawley, laughing. "Don't
he, Osborne? How well he made that-five stroke, eh?"
"Famous," Osborne said. "Jos is a devil of a fellow
at billiards, and at everything else, too. I wish there were
any tiger-hunting about here! we might go and kill a few
before dinner. (There goes a fine girl! what an ankle, eh,
Jos?) Tell us that story about the tiger-hunt, and the
way you did for him in the jungle--it's a wonderful story
that, Crawley." Here George Osborne gave a yawn. "It's
rather slow work," said he, "down here; what shall we
do?"
"Shall we go and look at some horses that Snaffler's
just brought from Lewes fair?" Crawley said.
"Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's,"
and the rogue Jos, willing to kill two birds with one
stone. "Devilish fine gal at Dutton's."
"Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in, it's
just about time?" George said. This advice prevailing
over the stables and the jelly, they turned towards the
coach-office to witness the Lightning's arrival.
As they passed, they met the carriage--Jos Sedley's
open carriage, with its magnificent armorial bearings--
that splendid conveyance in which he used to drive, about
at Cheltonham, majestic and solitary, with his arms
folded, and his hat cocked; or, more happy, with ladies
by his side.
Two were in the carriage now: one a little person, with
light hair, and dressed in the height of the fashion; the
other in a brown silk pelisse, and a straw bonnet with
pink ribbons, with a rosy, round, happy face, that did
you good to behold. She checked the carriage as it
neared the three gentlemen, after which exercise of
authority she looked rather nervous, and then began to
blush most absurdly. "We have had a delightful drive,
George," she said, "and--and we're so glad to come back;
and, Joseph, don't let him be late."
"Don't be leading our husbands into mischief, Mr.
Sedley, you wicked, wicked man you," Rebecca said,
shaking at Jos a pretty little finger covered with the
neatest French kid glove. "No billiards, no smoking, no
naughtiness!"
"My dear Mrs. Crawley--Ah now! upon my honour!"
was all Jos could ejaculate by way of reply; but he managed
to fall into a tolerable attitude, with his head lying
on his shoulder, grinning upwards at his victim, with one
hand at his back, which he supported on his cane, and
the other hand (the one with the diamond ring) fumbling
in his shirt-frill and among his under-waistcoats. As the
carriage drove off he kissed the diamond hand to the fair
ladies within. He wished all Cheltenham, all Chowringhee,
all Calcutta, could see him in that position, waving his
hand to such a beauty, and in company with such a
famous buck as Rawdon Crawley of the Guards.
Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton
as the place where they would pass the first few days after
their marriage; and having engaged apartments at the
Ship Inn, enjoyed themselves there in great comfort and
quietude, until Jos presently joined them. Nor was he
the only companion they found there. As they were
coming into the hotel from a sea-side walk one afternoon,
on whom should they light but Rebecca and her
husband. The recognition was immediate. Rebecca flew
into the arms of her dearest friend. Crawley and Osborne
shook hands together cordially enough: and Becky, in
the course of a very few hours, found means to make the
latter forget that little unpleasant passage of words which
had happened between them. "Do you remember the last
time we met at Miss Crawley's, when I was so rude to
you, dear Captain Osborne? I thought you seemed careless
about dear Amelia. It was that made me angry: and
so pert: and so unkind: and so ungrateful. Do forgive
me!" Rebecca said, and she held out her hand with so
frank and winning a grace, that Osborne could not but
take it. By humbly and frankly acknowledging yourself to
be in the wrong, there is no knowing, my son, what good
you may do. I knew once a gentleman and very worthy
practitioner in Vanity Fair, who used to do little wrongs
to his neighbours on purpose, and in order to apologise
for them in an open and manly way afterwards--and
what ensued? My friend Crocky Doyle was liked everywhere,
and deemed to be rather impetuous--but the honestest
fellow. Becky's humility passed for sincerity with
George Osborne.
These two young couples had plenty of tales to relate
to each other. The marriages of either were discussed;
and their prospects in life canvassed with the greatest
frankness and interest on both sides. George's marriage
was to be made known to his father by his friend
Captain Dobbin; and young Osborne trembled rather for the
result of that communication. Miss Crawley, on whom
all Rawdon's hopes depended, still held out. Unable to
make an entry into her house in Park Lane, her
affectionate nephew and niece had followed her to
Brighton, where they had emissaries continually planted
at her door.
"I wish you could see some of Rawdon's friends who
are always about our door," Rebecca said, laughing. "Did
you ever see a dun, my dear; or a bailiff and his man?
Two of the abominable wretches watched all last week
at the greengrocer's opposite, and we could not get away
until Sunday. If Aunty does not relent, what shall we
do?"
Rawdon, with roars of laughter, related a dozen amusing
anecdotes of his duns, and Rebecca's adroit treatment
of them. He vowed with a great oath that there was
no woman in Europe who could talk a creditor over as
she could. Almost immediately after their marriage, her
practice had begun, and her husband found the immense
value of such a wife. They had credit in plenty, but they
had bills also in abundance, and laboured under a scarcity
of ready money. Did these debt-difficulties affect Rawdon's
good spirits? No. Everybody in Vanity Fair must
have remarked how well those live who are comfortably
and thoroughly in debt: how they deny themselves nothing;
how jolly and easy they are in their minds. Rawdon
and his wife had the very best apartments at the inn at
Brighton; the landlord, as he brought in the first dish,
bowed before them as to his greatest customers: and
Rawdon abused the dinners and wine with an audacity
which no grandee in the land could surpass. Long custom,
a manly appearance, faultless boots and clothes,
and a happy fierceness of manner, will often help a man
as much as a great balance at the banker's.
The two wedding parties met constantly in each other's
apartments. After two or three nights the gentlemen of an
evening had a little piquet, as their wives sate and chatted
apart. This pastime, and the arrival of Jos Sedley, who
made his appearance in his grand open carriage, and who
played a few games at billiards with Captain Crawley,
replenished Rawdon's purse somewhat, and gave him the
benefit of that ready money for which the greatest spirits
are sometimes at a stand-still.
So the three gentlemen walked down to see the Lightning
coach come in. Punctual to the minute, the coach
crowded inside and out, the guard blowing his accustomed
tune on the horn--the Lightning came tearing
down the street, and pulled up at the coach-office.
"Hullo! there's old Dobbin," George cried, quite delighted
to see his old friend perched on the roof; and
whose promised visit to Brighton had been delayed until
now. "How are you, old fellow? Glad you're come down.
Emmy'll be delighted to see you," Osborne said, shaking
his comrade warmly by the hand as soon as his descent
from the vehicle was effected--and then he added, in a
lower and agitated voice, "What's the news? Have you
been in Russell Square? What does the governor say?
Tell me everything."
Dobbin looked very pale and grave. "I've seen your
father," said he. "How's Amelia--Mrs. George? I'll tell
you all the news presently: but I've brought the great
news of all: and that is--"
"Out with it, old fellow," George said.
"We're ordered to Belgium. All the army goes--guards
and all. Heavytop's got the gout, and is mad at not being
able to move. O'Dowd goes in command, and we embark
from Chatham next week." This news of war could
not but come with a shock upon our lovers, and caused
all these gentlemen to look very serious.
CHAPTER XXIII
Captain Dobbin Proceeds on His Canvass
What is the secret mesmerism which friendship
possesses, and under the operation of which a person
ordinarily sluggish, or cold, or timid, becomes wise,
active, and resolute, in another's behalf? As Alexis,
after a few passes from Dr. Elliotson, despises pain,
reads with the back of his head, sees miles off,
looks into next week, and performs other wonders,
of which, in his own private normal condition, he is
quite incapable; so you see, in the affairs of the world
and under the magnetism of friendships, the modest
man becomes bold, the shy confident, the lazy active, or
the impetuous prudent and peaceful. What is it, on the
other hand, that makes the lawyer eschew his own cause,
and call in his learned brother as an adviser? And what causes
the doctor, when ailing, to send for his rival, and not sit
down and examine his own tongue in the chimney Bass,
or write his own prescription at his study-table? I throw
out these queries for intelligent readers to answer, who
know, at once, how credulous we are, and how sceptical,
how soft and how obstinate, how firm for others and how
diffident about ourselves: meanwhile, it is certain that
our friend William Dobbin, who was personally of so
complying a disposition that if his parents had pressed
him much, it is probable he would have stepped down
into the kitchen and married the cook, and who, to further
his own interests, would have found the most insuperable
difficulty in walking across the street, found himself as
busy and eager in the conduct of George Osborne's
affairs, as the most selfish tactician could be in the pursuit
of his own.
Whilst our friend George and his young wife were
enjoying the first blushing days of the honeymoon at
Brighton, honest William was left as George's plenipotentiary
in London, to transact all the business part of the marriage.
His duty it was to call upon old Sedley and his
wife, and to keep the former in good humour: to draw Jos
and his brother-in-law nearer together, so that Jos's position
and dignity, as collector of Boggley Wollah, might
compensate for his father's loss of station, and tend to
reconcile old Osborne to the alliance: and finally, to
communicate it to the latter in such a way as should least
irritate the old gentleman.
Now, before he faced the head of the Osborne house
with the news which it was his duty to tell, Dobbin bethought
him that it would be politic to make friends of the
rest of the family, and, if possible, have the ladies on his
side. They can't be angry in their hearts, thought he. No
woman ever was really angry at a romantic marriage. A
little crying out, and they must come round to their
brother; when the three of us will lay siege to old Mr.
Osborne. So this Machiavellian captain of infantry cast
about him for some happy means or stratagem by which
he could gently and gradually bring the Misses Osborne
to a knowledge of their brother's secret.
By a little inquiry regarding his mother's engagements,
he was pretty soon able to find out by whom of her ladyship's friends parties were given at that season; where
he would be likely to meet Osborne's sisters; and, though
he had that abhorrence of routs and evening parties
which many sensible men, alas! entertain, he soon found
one where the Misses Osborne were to be present.
Making his appearance at the ball, where he danced a couple
of sets with both of them, and was prodigiously polite, he
actually had the courage to ask Miss Osborne for a few
minutes' conversation at an early hour the next day, when
he had, he said, to communicate to her news of the
very greatest interest.
What was it that made her start back, and gaze upon
him for a moment, and then on the ground at her feet,
and make as if she would faint on his arm, had he not by
opportunely treading on her toes, brought the young lady
back to self-control? Why was she so violently agitated
at Dobbin's request? This can never be known. But when
he came the next day, Maria was not in the drawing-room
with her sister, and Miss Wirt went off for the purpose
of fetching the latter, and the Captain and Miss Osborne
were left together. They were both so silent that the ticktock
of the Sacrifice of Iphigenia clock on the mantelpiece
became quite rudely audible.
"What a nice party it was last night," Miss Osborne at
length began, encouragingly; "and--and how you're
improved in your dancing, Captain Dobbin. Surely somebody
has taught you," she added, with amiable archness.
"You should see me dance a reel with Mrs. Major
O'Dowd of ours; and a jig--did you ever see a jig? But
I think anybody could dance with you, Miss Osborne,
who dance so well."
"Is the Major's lady young and beautiful, Captain?" the
fair questioner continued. "Ah, what a terrible thing it
must be to be a soldier's wife! I wonder they have any
spirits to dance, and in these dreadful times of war, too!
O Captain Dobbin, I tremble sometimes when I think of
our dearest George, and the dangers of the poor soldier.
Are there many married officers of the --th, Captain
Dobbin?"
"Upon my word, she's playing her hand rather too
openly," Miss Wirt thought; but this observation is merely parenthetic, and was not heard through the crevice of
the door at which the governess uttered it.
"One of our young men is just married," Dobbin said,
now coming to the point. "It was a very old attachment,
and the young couple are as poor as church mice."
"O, how delightful! O, how romantic!" Miss Osborne
cried, as the Captain said "old attachment" and "poor."
Her sympathy encouraged him.
"The finest young fellow in the regiment," he continued.
"Not a braver or handsomer officer in the army; and
such a charming wife! How you would like her! how
you will like her when you know her, Miss Osborne." The
young lady thought the actual moment had arrived, and
that Dobbin's nervousness which now came on and was
visible in many twitchings of his face, in his manner of
beating the ground with his great feet, in the rapid
buttoning and unbuttoning of his frock-coat, &c.--Miss
Osborne, I say, thought that when he had given himself a
little air, he would unbosom himself entirely, and
prepared eagerly to listen. And the clock, in the altar on
which Iphigenia was situated, beginning, after a preparatory convulsion, to toll twelve, the mere tolling seemed
as if it would last until one--so prolonged was the knell
to the anxious spinster.
"But it's not about marriage that I came to speak--
that is that marriage--that is--no, I mean--my dear
Miss Osborne, it's about our dear friend George,"
Dobbin said.
"About George?" she said in a tone so discomfited
that Maria and Miss Wirt laughed at the other side of
the door, and even that abandoned wretch of a Dobbin
felt inclined to smile himself; for he was not altogether
unconscious of the state of affairs: George having often
bantered him gracefully and said, "Hang it, Will, why
don't you take old Jane? She'll have you if you ask her.
I'll bet you five to two she will."
"Yes, about George, then," he continued. "There has
been a difference between him and Mr. Osborne. And I
regard him so much--for you know we have been like
brothers--that I hope and pray the quarrel may be
settled. We must go abroad, Miss Osborne. We may be
ordered off at a day's warning. Who knows what may
happen in the campaign? Don't be agitated, dear Miss
Osborne; and those two at least should part friends."
"There has been no quarrel, Captain Dobbin, except
a little usual scene with Papa," the lady said. "We are
expecting George back daily. What Papa wanted was only
for his good. He has but to come back, and I'm sure all
will be well; and dear Rhoda, who went away from here
in sad sad anger, I know will forgive him. Woman forgives
but too readily, Captain."
"Such an angel as YOU I am sure would," Mr. Dobbin
said, with atrocious astuteness. "And no man can pardon
himself for giving a woman pain. What would you feel,
if a man were faithless to you?"
"I should perish--I should throw myself out of window--
I should take poison--I should pine and die. I
know I should," Miss cried, who had nevertheless gone
through one or two affairs of the heart without any idea
of suicide.
"And there are others," Dobbin continued, "as true
and as kind-hearted as yourself. I'm not speaking about
the West Indian heiress, Miss Osborne, but about a poor
girl whom George once loved, and who was bred from
her childhood to think of nobody but him. I've seen her
in her poverty uncomplaining, broken-hearted, without a
fault. It is of Miss Sedley I speak. Dear Miss Osborne,
can your generous heart quarrel with your brother for
being faithful to her? Could his own conscience ever
forgive him if he deserted her? Be her friend--she always
loved you--and--and I am come here charged by George
to tell you that he holds his engagement to her as the
most sacred duty he has; and to entreat you, at least,
to be on his side."
When any strong emotion took possession of Mr. Dobbin,
and after the first word or two of hesitation, he could
speak with perfect fluency, and it was evident that his
eloquence on this occasion made some impression upon
the lady whom he addressed.
"Well," said she, "this is--most surprising--most painful--
most extraordinary--what will Papa say?--that
George should fling away such a superb establishment as
was offered to him but at any rate he has found a very
brave champion in you, Captain Dobbin. It is of no use,
however," she continued, after a pause; "I feel for poor
Miss Sedley, most certainly--most sincerely, you know.
We never thought the match a good one, though we were
always very kind to her here--very. But Papa will never
consent, I am sure. And a well brought up young woman,
you know--with a well-regulated mind, must--George
must give her up, dear Captain Dobbin, indeed he must."
"Ought a man to give up the woman he loved, just
when misfortune befell her?" Dobbin said, holding out
his hand. "Dear Miss Osborne, is this the counsel I hear
from you? My dear young lady! you must befriend her.
He can't give her up. He must not give her up. Would a
man, think you, give YOU up if you were poor?"
This adroit question touched the heart of Miss Jane
Osborne not a little. "I don't know whether we poor girls
ought to believe what you men say, Captain," she said.
"There is that in woman's tenderness which induces her
to believe too easily. I'm afraid you are cruel, cruel
deceivers,"--and Dobbin certainly thought he felt a
pressure of the hand which Miss Osborne had extended
to him.
He dropped it in some alarm. "Deceivers!" said he.
"No, dear Miss Osborne, all men are not; your brother
is not; George has loved Amelia Sedley ever since they
were children; no wealth would make him marry any but
her. Ought he to forsake her? Would you counsel him to
do so?"
What could Miss Jane say to such a question, and with
her own peculiar views? She could not answer it, so she
parried it by saying, "Well, if you are not a deceiver, at
least you are very romantic"; and Captain William let
this observation pass without challenge.
At length when, by the help of farther polite speeches,
he deemed that Miss Osborne was sufficiently prepared to
receive the whole news, he poured it into her ear.
"George could not give up Amelia--George was married
to her"--and then he related the circumstances of the
marriage as we know them already: how the poor girl
would have died had not her lover kept his faith: how
Old Sedley had refused all consent to the match, and a
licence had been got: and Jos Sedley had come from
Cheltenham to give away the bride: how they had gone
to Brighton in Jos's chariot-and-four to pass the honeymoon:
and how George counted on his dear kind sisters to
befriend him with their father, as women--so true
and tender as they were--assuredly would do. And so,
asking permission (readily granted) to see her again, and
rightly conjecturing that the news he had brought would
be told in the next five minutes to the other ladies,
Captain Dobbin made his bow and took his leave.
He was scarcely out of the house, when Miss Maria
and Miss Wirt rushed in to Miss Osborne, and the
whole wonderful secret was imparted to them by that
lady. To do them justice, neither of the sisters was very
much displeased. There is something about a runaway
match with which few ladies can be seriously angry, and
Amelia rather rose in their estimation, from the spirit
which she had displayed in consenting to the union. As
they debated the story, and prattled about it, and wondered
what Papa would do and say, came a loud knock,
as of an avenging thunder-clap, at the door, which made
these conspirators start. It must be Papa, they thought.
But it was not he. It was only Mr. Frederick Bullock,
who had come from the City according to appointment,
to conduct the ladies to a flower-show.
This gentleman, as may be imagined, was not kept
long in ignorance of the secret. But his face, when he
heard it, showed an amazement which was very different
to that look of sentimental wonder which the countenances
of the sisters wore. Mr. Bullock was a man of the world,
and a junior partner of a wealthy firm. He knew what
money was, and the value of it: and a delightful throb
of expectation lighted up his little eyes, and caused him
to smile on his Maria, as he thought that by this piece
of folly of Mr. George's she might be worth thirty
thousand pounds more than he had ever hoped to
get with her.
"Gad! Jane," said he, surveying even the elder sister
with some interest, "Eels will be sorry he cried off. You
may be a fifty thousand pounder yet."
The sisters had never thought of the money question
up to that moment, but Fred Bullock bantered them
with graceful gaiety about it during their forenoon's
excursion; and they had risen not a little in their own
esteem by the time when, the morning amusement over,
they drove back to dinner. And do not let my respected
reader exclaim against this selfishness as unnatural. It
was but this present morning, as he rode on the omnibus
from Richmond; while it changed horses, this present
chronicler, being on the roof, marked three little children
playing in a puddle below, very dirty, and friendly, and
happy. To these three presently came another little one.
"POLLY," says she, "YOUR SISTER'S GOT A PENNY." At which
the children got up from the puddle instantly, and ran
off to pay their court to Peggy. And as the omnibus drove
off I saw Peggy with the infantine procession at her
tail, marching with great dignity towards the stall of a
neighbouring lollipop-woman.
CHAPTER XXIV
In Which Mr. Osborne Takes Down the Family Bible
So having prepared the sisters, Dobbin hastened away
to the City to perform the rest and more difficult part
of the task which he had undertaken. The idea of facing
old Osborne rendered him not a little nervous, and more
than once he thought of leaving the young ladies to
communicate the secret, which, as he was aware, they could
not long retain. But he had promised to report to George
upon the manner in which the elder Osborne bore the
intelligence; so going into the City to the paternal
counting-house in Thames Street, he despatched thence
a note to Mr. Osborne begging for a half-hour's conversation
relative to the affairs of his son George. Dobbin's messenger
returned from Mr. Osborne's house of business, with the
compliments of the latter, who would be very happy to see the
Captain immediately, and away accordingly Dobbin went
to confront him.
The Captain, with a half-guilty secret to confess, and
with the prospect of a painful and stormy interview
before him, entered Mr. Osborne's offices with a most
dismal countenance and abashed gait, and, passing through
the outer room where Mr. Chopper presided, was greeted
by that functionary from his desk with a waggish air
which farther discomfited him. Mr. Chopper winked and
nodded and pointed his pen towards his patron's door,
and said, "You'll find the governor all right," with the
most provoking good humour.
Osborne rose too, and shook him heartily by the hand,
and said, "How do, my dear boy?" with a cordiality that
made poor George's ambassador feel doubly guilty. His
hand lay as if dead in the old gentleman's grasp. He felt
that he, Dobbin, was more or less the cause of all that
had happened. It was he had brought back George to
Amelia: it was he had applauded, encouraged, transacted
almost the marriage which he was come to reveal to
George's father: and the latter was receiving him with
smiles of welcome; patting him on the shoulder, and calling
him "Dobbin, my dear boy." The envoy had indeed
good reason to hang his head.
Osborne fully believed that Dobbin had come to
announce his son's surrender. Mr. Chopper and his
principal were talking over the matter between George and
his father, at the very moment when Dobbin's messenger
arrived. Both agreed that George was sending in his
submission. Both had been expecting it for some days--and
"Lord! Chopper, what a marriage we'll have!" Mr.
Osborne said to his clerk, snapping his big fingers, and
jingling all the guineas and shillings in his great pockets
as he eyed his subordinate with a look of triumph.
With similar operations conducted in both pockets,
and a knowing jolly air, Osborne from his chair regarded
Dobbin seated blank and silent opposite to him. "What
a bumpkin he is for a Captain in the army," old Osborne
thought. "I wonder George hasn't taught him better
manners."
At last Dobbin summoned courage to begin. "Sir," said
he, "I've brought you some very grave news. I have been
at the Horse Guards this morning, and there's no doubt
that our regiment will be ordered abroad, and on its
way to Belgium before the week is over. And you know,
sir, that we shan't be home again before a tussle which
may be fatal to many of us."
Osborne looked grave. "My s-- , the regiment will
do its duty, sir, I daresay," he said.
"The French are very strong, sir," Dobbin went on.
"The Russians and Austrians will be a long time before
they can bring their troops down. We shall have the first
of the fight, sir; and depend on it Boney will take care
that it shall be a hard one."
"What are you driving at, Dobbin?" his interlocutor
said, uneasy and with a scowl. "I suppose no Briton's
afraid of any d-- Frenchman, hey?"
"I only mean, that before we go, and considering the
great and certain risk that hangs over every one of us--
if there are any differences between you and George--it
would be as well, sir, that--that you should shake hands:
wouldn't it? Should anything happen to him, I think you
would never forgive yourself if you hadn't parted in
charity."
As he said this, poor William Dobbin blushed crimson,
and felt and owned that he himself was a traitor. But
for him, perhaps, this severance need never have taken
place. Why had not George's marriage been delayed?
What call was there to press it on so eagerly? He felt that
George would have parted from Amelia at any rate without
a mortal pang. Amelia, too, MIGHT have recovered the
shock of losing him. It was his counsel had brought
about this marriage, and all that was to ensue from it.
And why was it? Because he loved her so much that he
could not bear to see her unhappy: or because his own
sufferings of suspense were so unendurable that he was
glad to crush them at once--as we hasten a funeral
after a death, or, when a separation from those we love
is imminent, cannot rest until the parting be over.
"You are a good fellow, William," said Mr. Osborne in
a softened voice; "and me and George shouldn't part in
anger, that is true. Look here. I've done for him as
much as any father ever did. He's had three times as
much money from me, as I warrant your father ever
gave you. But I don't brag about that. How I've toiled
for him, and worked and employed my talents and energy,
I won't say. Ask Chopper. Ask himself. Ask the City of
London. Well, I propose to him such a marriage as any
nobleman in the land might be proud of--the only thing
in life I ever asked him--and he refuses me. Am I wrong?
Is the quarrel of MY making? What do I seek but his
good, for which I've been toiling like a convict ever since
he was born? Nobody can say there's anything selfish in
me. Let him come back. I say, here's my hand. I say,
forget and forgive. As for marrying now, it's out of the
question. Let him and Miss S. make it up, and make out the
marriage afterwards, when he comes back a Colonel;
for he shall be a Colonel, by G-- he shall, if money
can do it. I'm glad you've brought him round. I know it's
you, Dobbin. You've took him out of many a scrape
before. Let him come. I shan't be hard. Come along, and
dine in Russell Square to-day: both of you. The old shop,
the old hour. You'll find a neck of venison, and no
questions asked."
This praise and confidence smote Dobbin's heart very
keenly. Every moment the colloquy continued in this
tone, he felt more and more guilty. "Sir," said he, "I
fear you deceive yourself. I am sure you do. George is
much too high-minded a man ever to marry for money. A
threat on your part that you would disinherit him in
case of disobedience would only be followed by resistance
on his."
"Why, hang it, man, you don't call offering him eight
or ten thousand a year threatening him?'' Mr. Osborne
said, with still provoking good humour. "'Gad, if Miss
S. will have me, I'm her man. I ain't particular about a
shade or so of tawny." And the old gentleman gave his
knowing grin and coarse laugh.
"You forget, sir, previous engagements into which
Captain Osborne had entered," the ambassador said, gravely.
"What engagements? What the devil do you mean?
You don't mean," Mr. Osborne continued, gathering
wrath and astonishment as the thought now first came
upon him; "you don't mean that he's such a d-- fool
as to be still hankering after that swindling old bankrupt's
daughter? You've not come here for to make me
suppose that he wants to marry HER? Marry HER, that IS
a good one. My son and heir marry a beggar's girl out of
a gutter. D-- him, if he does, let him buy a broom
and sweep a crossing. She was always dangling and ogling
after him, I recollect now; and I've no doubt she was
put on by her old sharper of a father."
"Mr. Sedley was your very good friend, sir," Dobbin
interposed, almost pleased at finding himself growing
angry. "Time was you called him better names than
rogue and swindler. The match was of your making.
George had no right to play fast and loose--"
"Fast and loose!" howled out old Osborne. "Fast and
loose! Why, hang me, those are the very words my
gentleman used himself when he gave himself airs, last
Thursday was a fortnight, and talked about the British army
to his father who made him. What, it's you who have
been a setting of him up--is it? and my service to you,
CAPTAIN. It's you who want to introduce beggars into my
family. Thank you for nothing, Captain. Marry HER indeed
--he, he! why should he? I warrant you she'd go to him
fast enough without."
"Sir," said Dobbin, starting up in undisguised anger;
"no man shall abuse that lady in my hearing, and you
least of all."
"O, you're a-going to call me out, are you? Stop, let me
ring the bell for pistols for two. Mr. George sent you
here to insult his father, did he?" Osborne said, pulling
at the bell-cord.
"Mr. Osborne," said Dobbin, with a faltering voice,
"it's you who are insulting the best creature in the world.
You had best spare her, sir, for she's your son's wife."
And with this, feeling that he could say no more, Dobbin
went away, Osborne sinking back in his chair, and
looking wildly after him. A clerk came in, obedient to the
bell; and the Captain was scarcely out of the court where
Mr. Osborne's offices were, when Mr. Chopper the chief
clerk came rushing hatless after him.
"For God's sake, what is it?" Mr. Chopper said, catching
the Captain by the skirt. "The governor's in a fit.
What has Mr. George been doing?"
"He married Miss Sedley five days ago," Dobbin replied.
"I was his groomsman, Mr. Chopper, and you must
stand his friend."
The old clerk shook his head. "If that's your news,
Captain, it's bad. The governor will never forgive him."
Dobbin begged Chopper to report progress to him at
the hotel where he was stopping, and walked off moodily
westwards, greatly perturbed as to the past and the
future.
When the Russell Square family came to dinner that
evening, they found the father of the house seated in his
usual place, but with that air of gloom on his face, which,
whenever it appeared there, kept the whole circle silent.
The ladies, and Mr. Bullock who dined with them, felt
that the news had been communicated to Mr. Osborne.
His dark looks affected Mr. Bullock so far as to render
him still and quiet: but he was unusually bland and
attentive to Miss Maria, by whom he sat, and to her sister
presiding at the head of the table.
Miss Wirt, by consequence, was alone on her side of
the board, a gap being left between her and Miss Jane
Osborne. Now this was George's place when he dined at
home; and his cover, as we said, was laid for him in
expectation of that truant's return. Nothing occurred
during dinner-time except smiling Mr. Frederick's flagging
confidential whispers, and the clinking of plate and china,
to interrupt the silence of the repast. The servants went
about stealthily doing their duty. Mutes at funerals could
not look more glum than the domestics of Mr. Osborne
The neck of venison of which he had invited Dobbin to
partake, was carved by him in perfect silence; but his
own share went away almost untasted, though he drank
much, and the butler assiduously filled his glass.
At last, just at the end of the dinner, his eyes, which
had been staring at everybody in turn, fixed themselves
for a while upon the plate laid for George. He pointed
to it presently with his left hand. His daughters looked at
him and did not comprehend, or choose to comprehend,
the signal; nor did the servants at first understand it.
"Take that plate away," at last he said, getting up with
an oath--and with this pushing his chair back, he walked
into his own room.
Behind Mr. Osborne's dining-room was the usual
apartment which went in his house by the name of the
study; and was sacred to the master of the house. Hither
Mr. Osborne would retire of a Sunday forenoon when
not minded to go to church; and here pass the morning
in his crimson leather chair, reading the paper. A couple
of glazed book-cases were here, containing standard
works in stout gilt bindings. The "Annual Register," the
"Gentleman's Magazine," "Blair's Sermons," and "Hume
and Smollett." From year's end to year's end he never
took one of these volumes from the shelf; but there was
no member of the family that would dare for his life to
touch one of the books, except upon those rare Sunday
evenings when there was no dinner-party, and when the
great scarlet Bible and Prayer-book were taken out from
the corner where they stood beside his copy of the Peerage,
and the servants being rung up to the dining parlour,
Osborne read the evening service to his family in a
loud grating pompous voice. No member of the household,
child, or domestic, ever entered that room without
a certain terror. Here he checked the housekeeper's accounts,
and overhauled the butler's cellar-book. Hence he
could command, across the clean gravel court-yard, the
back entrance of the stables with which one of his bells
communicated, and into this yard the coachman issued
from his premises as into a dock, and Osborne swore at
him from the study window. Four times a year Miss
Wirt entered this apartment to get her salary; and his
daughters to receive their quarterly allowance. George
as a boy had been horsewhipped in this room many
times; his mother sitting sick on the stair listening to the
cuts of the whip. The boy was scarcely ever known to
cry under the punishment; the poor woman used to
fondle and kiss him secretly, and give him money to
soothe him when he came out.
There was a picture of the family over the mantelpiece,
removed thither from the front room after Mrs. Osborne's
death--George was on a pony, the elder sister
holding him up a bunch of flowers; the younger led by
her mother's hand; all with red cheeks and large red
mouths, simpering on each other in the approved family-
portrait manner. The mother lay underground now, long
since forgotten--the sisters and brother had a hundred
different interests of their own, and, familiar still, were
utterly estranged from each other. Some few score of
years afterwards, when all the parties represented are
grown old, what bitter satire there is in those flaunting
childish family-portraits, with their farce of sentiment and
smiling lies, and innocence so self-conscious and self-
satisfied. Osborne's own state portrait, with that of his
great silver inkstand and arm-chair, had taken the place
of honour in the dining-room, vacated by the family-
piece.
To this study old Osborne retired then, greatly to the
relief of the small party whom he left. When the
servants had withdrawn, they began to talk for a while
volubly but very low; then they went upstairs quietly,
Mr. Bullock accompanying them stealthily on his creaking
shoes. He had no heart to sit alone drinking wine,
and so close to the terrible old gentleman in the study
hard at hand.
An hour at least after dark, the butler, not having
received any summons, ventured to tap at his door and
take him in wax candles and tea. The master of the
house sate in his chair, pretending to read the paper,
and when the servant, placing the lights and refreshment
on the table by him, retired, Mr. Osborne got up and
locked the door after him. This time there was no mistaking
the matter; all the household knew that some great
catastrophe was going to happen which was likely direly
to affect Master George.
In the large shining mahogany escritoire Mr. Osborne
had a drawer especially devoted to his son's affairs and
papers. Here he kept all the documents relating to him
ever since he had been a boy: here were his prize copy-
books and drawing-books, all bearing George's hand,
and that of the master: here were his first letters in large
round-hand sending his love to papa and mamma, and
conveying his petitions for a cake. His dear godpapa
Sedley was more than once mentioned in them. Curses
quivered on old Osborne's livid lips, and horrid hatred
and disappointment writhed in his heart, as looking
through some of these papers he came on that name.
They were all marked and docketed, and tied with red tape.
It was--From Georgy, requesting 5s., April 23, 18--;
answered, April 25"--or "Georgy about a pony, October
13"--and so forth. In another packet were "Dr. S.'s accounts"
--"G.'s tailor's bills and outfits, drafts on me by
G. Osborne, jun.," &c.--his letters from the West Indies
--his agent's letters, and the newspapers containing his
commissions: here was a whip he had when a boy, and in
a paper a locket containing his hair, which his mother
used to wear.
Turning one over after another, and musing over these
memorials, the unhappy man passed many hours. His
dearest vanities, ambitious hopes, had all been here. What
pride he had in his boy! He was the handsomest child
ever seen. Everybody said he was like a nobleman's
son. A royal princess had remarked him, and kissed
him, and asked his name in Kew Gardens. What City
man could show such another? Could a prince have been
better cared for? Anything that money could buy had
been his son's. He used to go down on speech-days with
four horses and new liveries, and scatter new shillings
among the boys at the school where George was: when
he went with George to the depot of his regiment, before
the boy embarked for Canada, he gave the officers
such a dinner as the Duke of York might have sat down
to. Had he ever refused a bill when George drew one?
There they were--paid without a word. Many a general
in the army couldn't ride the horses he had! He had the
child before his eyes, on a hundred different days when
he remembered George after dinner, when he used
to come in as bold as a lord and drink off his glass by
his father's side, at the head of the table--on the pony
at Brighton, when he cleared the hedge and kept up with
the huntsman--on the day when he was presented to
the Prince Regent at the levee, when all Saint James's
couldn't produce a finer young fellow. And this, this was
the end of all!--to marry a bankrupt and fly in the face
of duty and fortune! What humiliation and fury: what
pangs of sickening rage, balked ambition and love; what
wounds of outraged vanity, tenderness even, had this
old worldling now to suffer under!
Having examined these papers, and pondered over this
one and the other, in that bitterest of all helpless woe,
with which miserable men think of happy past times--
George's father took the whole of the documents out of
the drawer in which he had kept them so long, and locked
them into a writing-box, which he tied, and sealed with
his seal. Then he opened the book-case, and took down
the great red Bible we have spoken of a pompous
book, seldom looked at, and shining all over with gold.
There was a frontispiece to the volume, representing
Abraham sacrificing Isaac. Here, according to custom,
Osborne had recorded on the fly-leaf, and in his large
clerk-like hand, the dates of his marriage and his wife's
death, and the births and Christian names of his children.
Jane came first, then George Sedley Osborne, then Maria
Frances, and the days of the christening of each. Taking
a pen, he carefully obliterated George's names from
the page; and when the leaf was quite dry, restored the
volume to the place from which he had moved it. Then
he took a document out of another drawer, where his
own private papers were kept; and having read it, crumpled
it up and lighted it at one of the candles, and saw it
burn entirely away in the grate. It was his will; which
being burned, he sate down and wrote off a letter, and
rang for his servant, whom he charged to deliver it in the
morning. It was morning already: as he went up to bed,
the whole house was alight with the sunshine; and the
birds were singing among the fresh green leaves in
Russell Square.
Anxious to keep all Mr. Osborne's family and dependants
in good humour, and to make as many friends as
possible for George in his hour of adversity, William Dobbin,
who knew the effect which good dinners and good
wines have upon the soul of man, wrote off immediately
on his return to his inn the most hospitable of invitations
to Thomas Chopper, Esquire, begging that gentleman to
dine with him at the Slaughters' next day. The note
reached Mr. Chopper before he left the City, and the
instant reply was, that "Mr. Chopper presents his
respectful compliments, and will have the honour and
pleasure of waiting on Captain D." The invitation and the
rough draft of the answer were shown to Mrs. Chopper
and her daughters on his return to Somers' Town that
evening, and they talked about military gents and West
End men with great exultation as the family sate and
partook of tea. When the girls had gone to rest, Mr. and
Mrs. C. discoursed upon the strange events which were
occurring in the governor's family. Never had the clerk
seen his principal so moved. When he went in to Mr.