Vanity Fair (103 page)

The result of the interview must have been very satisfactory, for
when Jos had reascended his post-chaise and had driven away to his
hotel, Emmy embraced her father tenderly, appealing to him with an
air of triumph, and asking the old man whether she did not always
say that her brother had a good heart?

Indeed, Joseph Sedley, affected by the humble position in which he
found his relations, and in the expansiveness and overflowing of
heart occasioned by the first meeting, declared that they should
never suffer want or discomfort any more, that he was at home for
some time at any rate, during which his house and everything he had
should be theirs: and that Amelia would look very pretty at the
head of his table—until she would accept one of her own.

She shook her head sadly and had, as usual, recourse to the
waterworks. She knew what he meant. She and her young confidante,
Miss Mary, had talked over the matter most fully, the very night of
the Major's visit, beyond which time the impetuous Polly could not
refrain from talking of the discovery which she had made, and
describing the start and tremor of joy by which Major Dobbin
betrayed himself when Mr. Binny passed with his bride and the Major
learned that he had no longer a rival to fear. "Didn't you see how
he shook all over when you asked if he was married and he said, 'Who
told you those lies?' Oh, M'am," Polly said, "he never kept his eyes
off you, and I'm sure he's grown grey athinking of you."

But Amelia, looking up at her bed, over which hung the portraits of
her husband and son, told her young protegee never, never, to speak
on that subject again; that Major Dobbin had been her husband's
dearest friend and her own and George's most kind and affectionate
guardian; that she loved him as a brother—but that a woman who had
been married to such an angel as that, and she pointed to the wall,
could never think of any other union. Poor Polly sighed: she
thought what she should do if young Mr. Tomkins, at the surgery, who
always looked at her so at church, and who, by those mere aggressive
glances had put her timorous little heart into such a flutter that
she was ready to surrender at once,—what she should do if he were
to die? She knew he was consumptive, his cheeks were so red and he
was so uncommon thin in the waist.

Not that Emmy, being made aware of the honest Major's passion,
rebuffed him in any way, or felt displeased with him. Such an
attachment from so true and loyal a gentleman could make no woman
angry. Desdemona was not angry with Cassio, though there is very
little doubt she saw the Lieutenant's partiality for her (and I for
my part believe that many more things took place in that sad affair
than the worthy Moorish officer ever knew of); why, Miranda was even
very kind to Caliban, and we may be pretty sure for the same reason.
Not that she would encourage him in the least—the poor uncouth
monster—of course not. No more would Emmy by any means encourage
her admirer, the Major. She would give him that friendly regard,
which so much excellence and fidelity merited; she would treat him
with perfect cordiality and frankness until he made his proposals,
and THEN it would be time enough for her to speak and to put an end
to hopes which never could be realized.

She slept, therefore, very soundly that evening, after the
conversation with Miss Polly, and was more than ordinarily happy, in
spite of Jos's delaying. "I am glad he is not going to marry that
Miss O'Dowd," she thought. "Colonel O'Dowd never could have a sister
fit for such an accomplished man as Major William." Who was there
amongst her little circle who would make him a good wife? Not Miss
Binny, she was too old and ill-tempered; Miss Osborne? too old too.
Little Polly was too young. Mrs. Osborne could not find anybody to
suit the Major before she went to sleep.

The same morning brought Major Dobbin a letter to the Slaughters'
Coffee-house from his friend at Southampton, begging dear Dob to
excuse Jos for being in a rage when awakened the day before (he had
a confounded headache, and was just in his first sleep), and
entreating Dob to engage comfortable rooms at the Slaughters' for
Mr. Sedley and his servants. The Major had become necessary to Jos
during the voyage. He was attached to him, and hung upon him. The
other passengers were away to London. Young Ricketts and little
Chaffers went away on the coach that day—Ricketts on the box, and
taking the reins from Botley; the Doctor was off to his family at
Portsea; Bragg gone to town to his co-partners; and the first mate
busy in the unloading of the Ramchunder. Mr. Joe was very lonely at
Southampton, and got the landlord of the George to take a glass of
wine with him that day, at the very hour at which Major Dobbin was
seated at the table of his father, Sir William, where his sister
found out (for it was impossible for the Major to tell fibs) that he
had been to see Mrs. George Osborne.

Jos was so comfortably situated in St. Martin's Lane, he could
enjoy his hookah there with such perfect ease, and could swagger
down to the theatres, when minded, so agreeably, that, perhaps, he
would have remained altogether at the Slaughters' had not his
friend, the Major, been at his elbow. That gentleman would not let
the Bengalee rest until he had executed his promise of having a home
for Amelia and his father. Jos was a soft fellow in anybody's
hands, Dobbin most active in anybody's concerns but his own; the
civilian was, therefore, an easy victim to the guileless arts of
this good-natured diplomatist and was ready to do, to purchase,
hire, or relinquish whatever his friend thought fit. Loll Jewab, of
whom the boys about St. Martin's Lane used to make cruel fun
whenever he showed his dusky countenance in the street, was sent
back to Calcutta in the Lady Kicklebury East Indiaman, in which Sir
William Dobbin had a share, having previously taught Jos's European
the art of preparing curries, pilaus, and pipes. It was a matter of
great delight and occupation to Jos to superintend the building of a
smart chariot which he and the Major ordered in the neighbouring
Long Acre: and a pair of handsome horses were jobbed, with which
Jos drove about in state in the park, or to call upon his Indian
friends. Amelia was not seldom by his side on these excursions,
when also Major Dobbin would be seen in the back seat of the
carriage. At other times old Sedley and his daughter took advantage
of it, and Miss Clapp, who frequently accompanied her friend, had
great pleasure in being recognized as she sat in the carriage,
dressed in the famous yellow shawl, by the young gentleman at the
surgery, whose face might commonly be seen over the window-blinds as
she passed.

Shortly after Jos's first appearance at Brompton, a dismal scene,
indeed, took place at that humble cottage at which the Sedleys had
passed the last ten years of their life. Jos's carriage (the
temporary one, not the chariot under construction) arrived one day
and carried off old Sedley and his daughter—to return no more. The
tears that were shed by the landlady and the landlady's daughter at
that event were as genuine tears of sorrow as any that have been
outpoured in the course of this history. In their long
acquaintanceship and intimacy they could not recall a harsh word
that had been uttered by Amelia She had been all sweetness and
kindness, always thankful, always gentle, even when Mrs. Clapp lost
her own temper and pressed for the rent. When the kind creature was
going away for good and all, the landlady reproached herself
bitterly for ever having used a rough expression to her—how she
wept, as they stuck up with wafers on the window, a paper notifying
that the little rooms so long occupied were to let! They never
would have such lodgers again, that was quite clear. After-life
proved the truth of this melancholy prophecy, and Mrs. Clapp
revenged herself for the deterioration of mankind by levying the
most savage contributions upon the tea-caddies and legs of mutton of
her locataires. Most of them scolded and grumbled; some of them did
not pay; none of them stayed. The landlady might well regret those
old, old friends, who had left her.

As for Miss Mary, her sorrow at Amelia's departure was such as I
shall not attempt to depict. From childhood upwards she had been
with her daily and had attached herself so passionately to that dear
good lady that when the grand barouche came to carry her off into
splendour, she fainted in the arms of her friend, who was indeed
scarcely less affected than the good-natured girl. Amelia loved her
like a daughter. During eleven years the girl had been her constant
friend and associate. The separation was a very painful one indeed
to her. But it was of course arranged that Mary was to come and
stay often at the grand new house whither Mrs. Osborne was going,
and where Mary was sure she would never be so happy as she had been
in their humble cot, as Miss Clapp called it, in the language of the
novels which she loved.

Let us hope she was wrong in her judgement. Poor Emmy's days of
happiness had been very few in that humble cot. A gloomy Fate had
oppressed her there. She never liked to come back to the house
after she had left it, or to face the landlady who had tyrannized
over her when ill-humoured and unpaid, or when pleased had treated
her with a coarse familiarity scarcely less odious. Her servility
and fulsome compliments when Emmy was in prosperity were not more to
that lady's liking. She cast about notes of admiration all over the
new house, extolling every article of furniture or ornament; she
fingered Mrs. Osborne's dresses and calculated their price. Nothing
could be too good for that sweet lady, she vowed and protested. But
in the vulgar sycophant who now paid court to her, Emmy always
remembered the coarse tyrant who had made her miserable many a time,
to whom she had been forced to put up petitions for time, when the
rent was overdue; who cried out at her extravagance if she bought
delicacies for her ailing mother or father; who had seen her humble
and trampled upon her.

Nobody ever heard of these griefs, which had been part of our poor
little woman's lot in life. She kept them secret from her father,
whose improvidence was the cause of much of her misery. She had to
bear all the blame of his misdoings, and indeed was so utterly
gentle and humble as to be made by nature for a victim.

I hope she is not to suffer much more of that hard usage. And, as
in all griefs there is said to be some consolation, I may mention
that poor Mary, when left at her friend's departure in a hysterical
condition, was placed under the medical treatment of the young
fellow from the surgery, under whose care she rallied after a short
period. Emmy, when she went away from Brompton, endowed Mary with
every article of furniture that the house contained, only taking
away her pictures (the two pictures over the bed) and her piano—
that little old piano which had now passed into a plaintive jingling
old age, but which she loved for reasons of her own. She was a
child when first she played on it, and her parents gave it her. It
had been given to her again since, as the reader may remember, when
her father's house was gone to ruin and the instrument was recovered
out of the wreck.

Major Dobbin was exceedingly pleased when, as he was superintending
the arrangements of Jos's new house—which the Major insisted should
be very handsome and comfortable—the cart arrived from Brompton,
bringing the trunks and bandboxes of the emigrants from that
village, and with them the old piano. Amelia would have it up in
her sitting-room, a neat little apartment on the second floor,
adjoining her father's chamber, and where the old gentleman sat
commonly of evenings.

When the men appeared then bearing this old music-box, and Amelia
gave orders that it should be placed in the chamber aforesaid,
Dobbin was quite elated. "I'm glad you've kept it," he said in a
very sentimental manner. "I was afraid you didn't care about it."

"I value it more than anything I have in the world," said Amelia.

"Do you, Amelia?" cried the Major. The fact was, as he had bought
it himself, though he never said anything about it, it never entered
into his head to suppose that Emmy should think anybody else was the
purchaser, and as a matter of course he fancied that she knew the
gift came from him. "Do you, Amelia?" he said; and the question,
the great question of all, was trembling on his lips, when Emmy
replied—

"Can I do otherwise?—did not he give it me?"

"I did not know," said poor old Dob, and his countenance fell.

Emmy did not note the circumstance at the time, nor take immediate
heed of the very dismal expression which honest Dobbin's countenance
assumed, but she thought of it afterwards. And then it struck her,
with inexpressible pain and mortification too, that it was William
who was the giver of the piano, and not George, as she had fancied.
It was not George's gift; the only one which she had received from
her lover, as she thought—the thing she had cherished beyond all
others—her dearest relic and prize. She had spoken to it about
George; played his favourite airs upon it; sat for long evening
hours, touching, to the best of her simple art, melancholy harmonies
on the keys, and weeping over them in silence. It was not George's
relic. It was valueless now. The next time that old Sedley asked
her to play, she said it was shockingly out of tune, that she had a
headache, that she couldn't play.

Then, according to her custom, she rebuked herself for her
pettishness and ingratitude and determined to make a reparation to
honest William for the slight she had not expressed to him, but had
felt for his piano. A few days afterwards, as they were seated in
the drawing-room, where Jos had fallen asleep with great comfort
after dinner, Amelia said with rather a faltering voice to Major
Dobbin—

"I have to beg your pardon for something."