Vanity Fair (37 page)

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.

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."