Authors: William Makepeace Thackeray
Well, Stubble and Spooney and the rest indulged in most romantic
conjectures regarding this female correspondent of Osborne's—
opining that it was a Duchess in London who was in love with him—or
that it was a General's daughter, who was engaged to somebody else,
and madly attached to him—or that it was a Member of Parliament's
lady, who proposed four horses and an elopement—or that it was some
other victim of a passion delightfully exciting, romantic, and
disgraceful to all parties, on none of which conjectures would
Osborne throw the least light, leaving his young admirers and
friends to invent and arrange their whole history.
And the real state of the case would never have been known at all in
the regiment but for Captain Dobbin's indiscretion. The Captain was
eating his breakfast one day in the mess-room, while Cackle, the
assistant-surgeon, and the two above-named worthies were speculating
upon Osborne's intrigue—Stubble holding out that the lady was a
Duchess about Queen Charlotte's court, and Cackle vowing she was an
opera-singer of the worst reputation. At this idea Dobbin became so
moved, that though his mouth was full of eggs and bread-and-butter
at the time, and though he ought not to have spoken at all, yet he
couldn't help blurting out, "Cackle, you're a stupid fool. You're
always talking nonsense and scandal. Osborne is not going to run
off with a Duchess or ruin a milliner. Miss Sedley is one of the
most charming young women that ever lived. He's been engaged to her
ever so long; and the man who calls her names had better not do so
in my hearing." With which, turning exceedingly red, Dobbin ceased
speaking, and almost choked himself with a cup of tea. The story
was over the regiment in half-an-hour; and that very evening Mrs.
Major O'Dowd wrote off to her sister Glorvina at O'Dowdstown not to
hurry from Dublin—young Osborne being prematurely engaged already.
She complimented the Lieutenant in an appropriate speech over a
glass of whisky-toddy that evening, and he went home perfectly
furious to quarrel with Dobbin (who had declined Mrs. Major O'Dowd's
party, and sat in his own room playing the flute, and, I believe,
writing poetry in a very melancholy manner)—to quarrel with Dobbin
for betraying his secret.
"Who the deuce asked you to talk about my affairs?" Osborne shouted
indignantly. "Why the devil is all the regiment to know that I am
going to be married? Why is that tattling old harridan, Peggy
O'Dowd, to make free with my name at her d—d supper-table, and
advertise my engagement over the three kingdoms? After all, what
right have you to say I am engaged, or to meddle in my business at
all, Dobbin?"
"It seems to me," Captain Dobbin began.
"Seems be hanged, Dobbin," his junior interrupted him. "I am under
obligations to you, I know it, a d—d deal too well too; but I won't
be always sermonised by you because you're five years my senior.
I'm hanged if I'll stand your airs of superiority and infernal pity
and patronage. Pity and patronage! I should like to know in what
I'm your inferior?"
"Are you engaged?" Captain Dobbin interposed.
"What the devil's that to you or any one here if I am?"
"Are you ashamed of it?" Dobbin resumed.
"What right have you to ask me that question, sir? I should like to
know," George said.
"Good God, you don't mean to say you want to break off?" asked
Dobbin, starting up.
"In other words, you ask me if I'm a man of honour," said Osborne,
fiercely; "is that what you mean? You've adopted such a tone
regarding me lately that I'm —— if I'll bear it any more."
"What have I done? I've told you you were neglecting a sweet girl,
George. I've told you that when you go to town you ought to go to
her, and not to the gambling-houses about St. James's."
"You want your money back, I suppose," said George, with a sneer.
"Of course I do—I always did, didn't I?" says Dobbin. "You speak
like a generous fellow."
"No, hang it, William, I beg your pardon"—here George interposed in
a fit of remorse; "you have been my friend in a hundred ways, Heaven
knows. You've got me out of a score of scrapes. When Crawley of
the Guards won that sum of money of me I should have been done but
for you: I know I should. But you shouldn't deal so hardly with me;
you shouldn't be always catechising me. I am very fond of Amelia; I
adore her, and that sort of thing. Don't look angry. She's
faultless; I know she is. But you see there's no fun in winning a
thing unless you play for it. Hang it: the regiment's just back
from the West Indies, I must have a little fling, and then when I'm
married I'll reform; I will upon my honour, now. And—I say—Dob—
don't be angry with me, and I'll give you a hundred next month, when
I know my father will stand something handsome; and I'll ask
Heavytop for leave, and I'll go to town, and see Amelia to-morrow—
there now, will that satisfy you?"
"It is impossible to be long angry with you, George," said the good-
natured Captain; "and as for the money, old boy, you know if I
wanted it you'd share your last shilling with me."
"That I would, by Jove, Dobbin," George said, with the greatest
generosity, though by the way he never had any money to spare.
"Only I wish you had sown those wild oats of yours, George. If you
could have seen poor little Miss Emmy's face when she asked me about
you the other day, you would have pitched those billiard-balls to
the deuce. Go and comfort her, you rascal. Go and write her a long
letter. Do something to make her happy; a very little will."
"I believe she's d—d fond of me," the Lieutenant said, with a self-
satisfied air; and went off to finish the evening with some jolly
fellows in the mess-room.
Amelia meanwhile, in Russell Square, was looking at the moon, which
was shining upon that peaceful spot, as well as upon the square of
the Chatham barracks, where Lieutenant Osborne was quartered, and
thinking to herself how her hero was employed. Perhaps he is
visiting the sentries, thought she; perhaps he is bivouacking;
perhaps he is attending the couch of a wounded comrade, or studying
the art of war up in his own desolate chamber. And her kind thoughts
sped away as if they were angels and had wings, and flying down the
river to Chatham and Rochester, strove to peep into the barracks
where George was. . . . All things considered, I think it was as
well the gates were shut, and the sentry allowed no one to pass; so
that the poor little white-robed angel could not hear the songs
those young fellows were roaring over the whisky-punch.
The day after the little conversation at Chatham barracks, young
Osborne, to show that he would be as good as his word, prepared to
go to town, thereby incurring Captain Dobbin's applause. "I should
have liked to make her a little present," Osborne said to his friend
in confidence, "only I am quite out of cash until my father tips
up." But Dobbin would not allow this good nature and generosity to
be balked, and so accommodated Mr. Osborne with a few pound notes,
which the latter took after a little faint scruple.
And I dare say he would have bought something very handsome for
Amelia; only, getting off the coach in Fleet Street, he was
attracted by a handsome shirt-pin in a jeweller's window, which he
could not resist; and having paid for that, had very little money to
spare for indulging in any further exercise of kindness. Never
mind: you may be sure it was not his presents Amelia wanted. When
he came to Russell Square, her face lighted up as if he had been
sunshine. The little cares, fears, tears, timid misgivings,
sleepless fancies of I don't know how many days and nights, were
forgotten, under one moment's influence of that familiar,
irresistible smile. He beamed on her from the drawing-room door—
magnificent, with ambrosial whiskers, like a god. Sambo, whose face
as he announced Captain Osbin (having conferred a brevet rank on
that young officer) blazed with a sympathetic grin, saw the little
girl start, and flush, and jump up from her watching-place in the
window; and Sambo retreated: and as soon as the door was shut, she
went fluttering to Lieutenant George Osborne's heart as if it was
the only natural home for her to nestle in. Oh, thou poor panting
little soul! The very finest tree in the whole forest, with the
straightest stem, and the strongest arms, and the thickest foliage,
wherein you choose to build and coo, may be marked, for what you
know, and may be down with a crash ere long. What an old, old
simile that is, between man and timber!
In the meanwhile, George kissed her very kindly on her forehead and
glistening eyes, and was very gracious and good; and she thought his
diamond shirt-pin (which she had not known him to wear before) the
prettiest ornament ever seen.
The observant reader, who has marked our young Lieutenant's previous
behaviour, and has preserved our report of the brief conversation
which he has just had with Captain Dobbin, has possibly come to
certain conclusions regarding the character of Mr. Osborne. Some
cynical Frenchman has said that there are two parties to a love-
transaction: the one who loves and the other who condescends to be
so treated. Perhaps the love is occasionally on the man's side;
perhaps on the lady's. Perhaps some infatuated swain has ere this
mistaken insensibility for modesty, dulness for maiden reserve, mere
vacuity for sweet bashfulness, and a goose, in a word, for a swan.
Perhaps some beloved female subscriber has arrayed an ass in the
splendour and glory of her imagination; admired his dulness as manly
simplicity; worshipped his selfishness as manly superiority; treated
his stupidity as majestic gravity, and used him as the brilliant
fairy Titania did a certain weaver at Athens. I think I have seen
such comedies of errors going on in the world. But this is certain,
that Amelia believed her lover to be one of the most gallant and
brilliant men in the empire: and it is possible Lieutenant Osborne
thought so too.
He was a little wild: how many young men are; and don't girls like a
rake better than a milksop? He hadn't sown his wild oats as yet,
but he would soon: and quit the army now that peace was proclaimed;
the Corsican monster locked up at Elba; promotion by consequence
over; and no chance left for the display of his undoubted military
talents and valour: and his allowance, with Amelia's settlement,
would enable them to take a snug place in the country somewhere, in
a good sporting neighbourhood; and he would hunt a little, and farm
a little; and they would be very happy. As for remaining in the
army as a married man, that was impossible. Fancy Mrs. George
Osborne in lodgings in a county town; or, worse still, in the East
or West Indies, with a society of officers, and patronized by Mrs.
Major O'Dowd! Amelia died with laughing at Osborne's stories about
Mrs. Major O'Dowd. He loved her much too fondly to subject her to
that horrid woman and her vulgarities, and the rough treatment of a
soldier's wife. He didn't care for himself—not he; but his dear
little girl should take the place in society to which, as his wife,
she was entitled: and to these proposals you may be sure she
acceded, as she would to any other from the same author.
Holding this kind of conversation, and building numberless castles
in the air (which Amelia adorned with all sorts of flower-gardens,
rustic walks, country churches, Sunday schools, and the like; while
George had his mind's eye directed to the stables, the kennel, and
the cellar), this young pair passed away a couple of hours very
pleasantly; and as the Lieutenant had only that single day in town,
and a great deal of most important business to transact, it was
proposed that Miss Emmy should dine with her future sisters-in-law.
This invitation was accepted joyfully. He conducted her to his
sisters; where he left her talking and prattling in a way that
astonished those ladies, who thought that George might make
something of her; and he then went off to transact his business.
In a word, he went out and ate ices at a pastry-cook's shop in
Charing Cross; tried a new coat in Pall Mall; dropped in at the Old
Slaughters', and called for Captain Cannon; played eleven games at
billiards with the Captain, of which he won eight, and returned to
Russell Square half an hour late for dinner, but in very good
humour.
It was not so with old Mr. Osborne. When that gentleman came from
the City, and was welcomed in the drawing-room by his daughters and
the elegant Miss Wirt, they saw at once by his face—which was
puffy, solemn, and yellow at the best of times—and by the scowl and
twitching of his black eyebrows, that the heart within his large
white waistcoat was disturbed and uneasy. When Amelia stepped
forward to salute him, which she always did with great trembling and
timidity, he gave a surly grunt of recognition, and dropped the
little hand out of his great hirsute paw without any attempt to hold
it there. He looked round gloomily at his eldest daughter; who,
comprehending the meaning of his look, which asked unmistakably,
"Why the devil is she here?" said at once:
"George is in town, Papa; and has gone to the Horse Guards, and will
be back to dinner."
"O he is, is he? I won't have the dinner kept waiting for him,
Jane"; with which this worthy man lapsed into his particular chair,
and then the utter silence in his genteel, well-furnished drawing-
room was only interrupted by the alarmed ticking of the great French
clock.
When that chronometer, which was surmounted by a cheerful brass
group of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, tolled five in a heavy
cathedral tone, Mr. Osborne pulled the bell at his right hand-
violently, and the butler rushed up.
"Dinner!" roared Mr. Osborne.
"Mr. George isn't come in, sir," interposed the man.
"Damn Mr. George, sir. Am I master of the house? DINNER!" Mr.
Osborne scowled. Amelia trembled. A telegraphic communication of
eyes passed between the other three ladies. The obedient bell in
the lower regions began ringing the announcement of the meal. The
tolling over, the head of the family thrust his hands into the great
tail-pockets of his great blue coat with brass buttons, and without
waiting for a further announcement strode downstairs alone, scowling
over his shoulder at the four females.