Vanity Fair (38 page)

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.

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."