CHAPTER XII

Quite a Sentimental Chapter

We must now take leave of Arcadia, and those amiable people practising

the rural virtues there, and travel back to London, to inquire what has

become of Miss Amelia.

"We don't care a fig for her," writes some unknown correspondent with a

pretty little handwriting and a pink seal to her note. "She is fade and

insipid," and adds some more kind remarks in this strain, which I should

never have repeated at all, but that they are in truth prodigiously

complimentary to the young lady whom they concern.

Has the beloved reader, in his experience of society, never heard

similar remarks by good-natured female friends; who always wonder what

you CAN see in Miss Smith that is so fascinating; or what COULD induce

Major Jones to propose for that silly insignificant simpering Miss

Thompson, who has nothing but her wax-doll face to recommend her? What

is there in a pair of pink cheeks and blue eyes forsooth? these dear

Moralists ask, and hint wisely that the gifts of genius, the

accomplishments of the mind, the mastery of Mangnall's Questions, and a

ladylike knowledge of botany and geology, the knack of making poetry,

the power of rattling sonatas in the Herz-manner, and so forth, are far

more valuable endowments for a female, than those fugitive charms which

a few years will inevitably tarnish. It is quite edifying to hear

women speculate upon the worthlessness and the duration of beauty.

But though virtue is a much finer thing, and those hapless creatures

who suffer under the misfortune of good looks ought to be continually

put in mind of the fate which awaits them; and though, very likely, the

heroic female character which ladies admire is a more glorious and

beautiful object than the kind, fresh, smiling, artless, tender little

domestic goddess, whom men are inclined to worship--yet the latter and

inferior sort of women must have this consolation--that the men do

admire them after all; and that, in spite of all our kind friends'

warnings and protests, we go on in our desperate error and folly, and

shall to the end of the chapter. Indeed, for my own part, though I have

been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect,

that Miss Brown is an insignificant chit, and Mrs. White has nothing

but her petit minois chiffonne, and Mrs. Black has not a word to say

for herself; yet I know that I have had the most delightful

conversations with Mrs. Black (of course, my dear Madam, they are

inviolable): I see all the men in a cluster round Mrs. White's chair:

all the young fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown; and so I am

tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great

compliment to a woman.

The young ladies in Amelia's society did this for her very

satisfactorily. For instance, there was scarcely any point upon which

the Misses Osborne, George's sisters, and the Mesdemoiselles Dobbin

agreed so well as in their estimate of her very trifling merits: and

their wonder that their brothers could find any charms in her. "We are

kind to her," the Misses Osborne said, a pair of fine black-browed

young ladies who had had the best of governesses, masters, and

milliners; and they treated her with such extreme kindness and

condescension, and patronised her so insufferably, that the poor little

thing was in fact perfectly dumb in their presence, and to all outward

appearance as stupid as they thought her. She made efforts to like

them, as in duty bound, and as sisters of her future husband. She

passed "long mornings" with them--the most dreary and serious of

forenoons. She drove out solemnly in their great family coach with

them, and Miss Wirt their governess, that raw-boned Vestal. They took

her to the ancient concerts by way of a treat, and to the oratorio, and

to St. Paul's to see the charity children, where in such terror was she

of her friends, she almost did not dare be affected by the hymn the

children sang. Their house was comfortable; their papa's table rich

and handsome; their society solemn and genteel; their self-respect

prodigious; they had the best pew at the Foundling: all their habits

were pompous and orderly, and all their amusements intolerably dull and

decorous. After every one of her visits (and oh how glad she was when

they were over!) Miss Osborne and Miss Maria Osborne, and Miss Wirt,

the vestal governess, asked each other with increased wonder, "What

could George find in that creature?"

How is this? some carping reader exclaims. How is it that Amelia, who

had such a number of friends at school, and was so beloved there, comes

out into the world and is spurned by her discriminating sex? My dear

sir, there were no men at Miss Pinkerton's establishment except the old

dancing-master; and you would not have had the girls fall out about

HIM? When George, their handsome brother, ran off directly after

breakfast, and dined from home half-a-dozen times a week, no wonder the

neglected sisters felt a little vexation. When young Bullock (of the

firm of Hulker, Bullock & Co., Bankers, Lombard Street), who had been

making up to Miss Maria the last two seasons, actually asked Amelia to

dance the cotillon, could you expect that the former young lady should

be pleased? And yet she said she was, like an artless forgiving

creature. "I'm so delighted you like dear Amelia," she said quite

eagerly to Mr. Bullock after the dance. "She's engaged to my brother

George; there's not much in her, but she's the best-natured and most

unaffected young creature: at home we're all so fond of her." Dear

girl! who can calculate the depth of affection expressed in that

enthusiastic SO?

Miss Wirt and these two affectionate young women so earnestly and

frequently impressed upon George Osborne's mind the enormity of the

sacrifice he was making, and his romantic generosity in throwing

himself away upon Amelia, that I'm not sure but that he really thought

he was one of the most deserving characters in the British army, and

gave himself up to be loved with a good deal of easy resignation.

Somehow, although he left home every morning, as was stated, and dined

abroad six days in the week, when his sisters believed the infatuated

youth to be at Miss Sedley's apron-strings: he was NOT always with

Amelia, whilst the world supposed him at her feet. Certain it is that

on more occasions than one, when Captain Dobbin called to look for his

friend, Miss Osborne (who was very attentive to the Captain, and

anxious to hear his military stories, and to know about the health of

his dear Mamma), would laughingly point to the opposite side of the

square, and say, "Oh, you must go to the Sedleys' to ask for George; WE

never see him from morning till night." At which kind of speech the

Captain would laugh in rather an absurd constrained manner, and turn

off the conversation, like a consummate man of the world, to some topic

of general interest, such as the Opera, the Prince's last ball at

Carlton House, or the weather--that blessing to society.

"What an innocent it is, that pet of yours," Miss Maria would then say

to Miss Jane, upon the Captain's departure. "Did you see how he

blushed at the mention of poor George on duty?"

"It's a pity Frederick Bullock hadn't some of his modesty, Maria,"

replies the elder sister, with a toss of he head.

"Modesty! Awkwardness you mean, Jane. I don't want Frederick to

trample a hole in my muslin frock, as Captain Dobbin did in yours at

Mrs. Perkins'."

"In YOUR frock, he, he! How could he? Wasn't he dancing with Amelia?"

The fact is, when Captain Dobbin blushed so, and looked so awkward, he

remembered a circumstance of which he did not think it was necessary to

inform the young ladies, viz., that he had been calling at Mr. Sedley's

house already, on the pretence of seeing George, of course, and George

wasn't there, only poor little Amelia, with rather a sad wistful face,

seated near the drawing-room window, who, after some very trifling

stupid talk, ventured to ask, was there any truth in the report that

the regiment was soon to be ordered abroad; and had Captain Dobbin seen

Mr. Osborne that day?

The regiment was not ordered abroad as yet; and Captain Dobbin had not

seen George. "He was with his sister, most likely," the Captain said.

"Should he go and fetch the truant?" So she gave him her hand kindly

and gratefully: and he crossed the square; and she waited and waited,

but George never came.

Poor little tender heart! and so it goes on hoping and beating, and

longing and trusting. You see it is not much of a life to describe.

There is not much of what you call incident in it. Only one feeling

all day--when will he come? only one thought to sleep and wake upon. I

believe George was playing billiards with Captain Cannon in Swallow

Street at the time when Amelia was asking Captain Dobbin about him; for

George was a jolly sociable fellow, and excellent in all games of skill.

Once, after three days of absence, Miss Amelia put on her bonnet, and

actually invaded the Osborne house. "What! leave our brother to come to

us?" said the young ladies. "Have you had a quarrel, Amelia? Do tell

us!" No, indeed, there had been no quarrel. "Who could quarrel with

him?" says she, with her eyes filled with tears. She only came over

to--to see her dear friends; they had not met for so long. And this

day she was so perfectly stupid and awkward, that the Misses Osborne

and their governess, who stared after her as she went sadly away,

wondered more than ever what George could see in poor little Amelia.

Of course they did. How was she to bare that timid little heart for

the inspection of those young ladies with their bold black eyes? It was

best that it should shrink and hide itself. I know the Misses Osborne

were excellent critics of a Cashmere shawl, or a pink satin slip; and

when Miss Turner had hers dyed purple, and made into a spencer; and

when Miss Pickford had her ermine tippet twisted into a muff and

trimmings, I warrant you the changes did not escape the two intelligent

young women before mentioned. But there are things, look you, of a

finer texture than fur or satin, and all Solomon's glories, and all the

wardrobe of the Queen of Sheba--things whereof the beauty escapes the

eyes of many connoisseurs. And there are sweet modest little souls on

which you light, fragrant and blooming tenderly in quiet shady places;

and there are garden-ornaments, as big as brass warming-pans, that are

fit to stare the sun itself out of countenance. Miss Sedley was not of

the sunflower sort; and I say it is out of the rules of all proportion

to draw a violet of the size of a double dahlia.

No, indeed; the life of a good young girl who is in the paternal nest

as yet, can't have many of those thrilling incidents to which the

heroine of romance commonly lays claim. Snares or shot may take off

the old birds foraging without--hawks may be abroad, from which they

escape or by whom they suffer; but the young ones in the nest have a

pretty comfortable unromantic sort of existence in the down and the

straw, till it comes to their turn, too, to get on the wing. While

Becky Sharp was on her own wing in the country, hopping on all sorts of

twigs, and amid a multiplicity of traps, and pecking up her food quite

harmless and successful, Amelia lay snug in her home of Russell Square;

if she went into the world, it was under the guidance of the elders;

nor did it seem that any evil could befall her or that opulent cheery

comfortable home in which she was affectionately sheltered. Mamma had

her morning duties, and her daily drive, and the delightful round of

visits and shopping which forms the amusement, or the profession as you

may call it, of the rich London lady. Papa conducted his mysterious

operations in the City--a stirring place in those days, when war was

raging all over Europe, and empires were being staked; when the

"Courier" newspaper had tens of thousands of subscribers; when one day

brought you a battle of Vittoria, another a burning of Moscow, or a

newsman's horn blowing down Russell Square about dinner-time, announced

such a fact as--"Battle of Leipsic--six hundred thousand men

engaged--total defeat of the French--two hundred thousand killed." Old

Sedley once or twice came home with a very grave face; and no wonder,

when such news as this was agitating all the hearts and all the Stocks

of Europe.

Meanwhile matters went on in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, just as if

matters in Europe were not in the least disorganised. The retreat from

Leipsic made no difference in the number of meals Mr. Sambo took in the

servants' hall; the allies poured into France, and the dinner-bell rang

at five o'clock just as usual. I don't think poor Amelia cared

anything about Brienne and Montmirail, or was fairly interested in the

war until the abdication of the Emperor; when she clapped her hands and

said prayers--oh, how grateful! and flung herself into George Osborne's

arms with all her soul, to the astonishment of everybody who witnessed

that ebullition of sentiment. The fact is, peace was declared, Europe

was going to be at rest; the Corsican was overthrown, and Lieutenant

Osborne's regiment would not be ordered on service. That was the way

in which Miss Amelia reasoned. The fate of Europe was Lieutenant

George Osborne to her. His dangers being over, she sang Te Deum. He

was her Europe: her emperor: her allied monarchs and august prince

regent. He was her sun and moon; and I believe she thought the grand

illumination and ball at the Mansion House, given to the sovereigns,

were especially in honour of George Osborne.

We have talked of shift, self, and poverty, as those dismal instructors

under whom poor Miss Becky Sharp got her education. Now, love was Miss

Amelia Sedley's last tutoress, and it was amazing what progress our

young lady made under that popular teacher. In the course of fifteen

or eighteen months' daily and constant attention to this eminent

finishing governess, what a deal of secrets Amelia learned, which Miss

Wirt and the black-eyed young ladies over the way, which old Miss

Pinkerton of Chiswick herself, had no cognizance of! As, indeed, how

should any of those prim and reputable virgins? With Misses P. and W.

the tender passion is out of the question: I would not dare to breathe

such an idea regarding them. Miss Maria Osborne, it is true, was

"attached" to Mr. Frederick Augustus Bullock, of the firm of Hulker,

Bullock & Bullock; but hers was a most respectable attachment, and she

would have taken Bullock Senior just the same, her mind being fixed--as

that of a well-bred young woman should be--upon a house in Park Lane, a

country house at Wimbledon, a handsome chariot, and two prodigious tall

horses and footmen, and a fourth of the annual profits of the eminent

firm of Hulker & Bullock, all of which advantages were represented in

the person of Frederick Augustus. Had orange blossoms been invented

then (those touching emblems of female purity imported by us from

France, where people's daughters are universally sold in marriage),

Miss Maria, I say, would have assumed the spotless wreath, and stepped

into the travelling carriage by the side of gouty, old, bald-headed,

bottle-nosed Bullock Senior; and devoted her beautiful existence to his

happiness with perfect modesty--only the old gentleman was married

already; so she bestowed her young affections on the junior partner.

Sweet, blooming, orange flowers! The other day I saw Miss Trotter

(that was), arrayed in them, trip into the travelling carriage at St.

George's, Hanover Square, and Lord Methuselah hobbled in after. With

what an engaging modesty she pulled down the blinds of the chariot--the

dear innocent! There were half the carriages of Vanity Fair at the

wedding.

This was not the sort of love that finished Amelia's education; and in

the course of a year turned a good young girl into a good young

woman--to be a good wife presently, when the happy time should come.

This young person (perhaps it was very imprudent in her parents to

encourage her, and abet her in such idolatry and silly romantic ideas)

loved, with all her heart, the young officer in His Majesty's service

with whom we have made a brief acquaintance. She thought about him the

very first moment on waking; and his was the very last name mentioned

in her prayers. She never had seen a man so beautiful or so clever:

such a figure on horseback: such a dancer: such a hero in general.

Talk of the Prince's bow! what was it to George's? She had seen Mr.

Brummell, whom everybody praised so. Compare such a person as that to

her George! Not amongst all the beaux at the Opera (and there were

beaux in those days with actual opera hats) was there any one to equal

him. He was only good enough to be a fairy prince; and oh, what

magnanimity to stoop to such a humble Cinderella! Miss Pinkerton would

have tried to check this blind devotion very likely, had she been

Amelia's confidante; but not with much success, depend upon it. It is

in the nature and instinct of some women. Some are made to scheme, and

some to love; and I wish any respected bachelor that reads this may

take the sort that best likes him.

While under this overpowering impression, Miss Amelia neglected her

twelve dear friends at Chiswick most cruelly, as such selfish people

commonly will do. She had but this subject, of course, to think about;

and Miss Saltire was too cold for a confidante, and she couldn't bring

her mind to tell Miss Swartz, the woolly-haired young heiress from St.

Kitt's. She had little Laura Martin home for the holidays; and my

belief is, she made a confidante of her, and promised that Laura should

come and live with her when she was married, and gave Laura a great

deal of information regarding the passion of love, which must have been

singularly useful and novel to that little person. Alas, alas! I fear

poor Emmy had not a well-regulated mind.

What were her parents doing, not to keep this little heart from beating

so fast? Old Sedley did not seem much to notice matters. He was graver

of late, and his City affairs absorbed him. Mrs. Sedley was of so easy

and uninquisitive a nature that she wasn't even jealous. Mr. Jos was

away, being besieged by an Irish widow at Cheltenham. Amelia had the

house to herself--ah! too much to herself sometimes--not that she ever

doubted; for, to be sure, George must be at the Horse Guards; and he

can't always get leave from Chatham; and he must see his friends and

sisters, and mingle in society when in town (he, such an ornament to

every society!); and when he is with the regiment, he is too tired to

write long letters. I know where she kept that packet she had--and can

steal in and out of her chamber like Iachimo--like Iachimo? No--that

is a bad part. I will only act Moonshine, and peep harmless into the

bed where faith and beauty and innocence lie dreaming.

But if Osborne's were short and soldierlike letters, it must be

confessed, that were Miss Sedley's letters to Mr. Osborne to be

published, we should have to extend this novel to such a multiplicity

of volumes as not the most sentimental reader could support; that she

not only filled sheets of large paper, but crossed them with the most

astonishing perverseness; that she wrote whole pages out of

poetry-books without the least pity; that she underlined words and

passages with quite a frantic emphasis; and, in fine, gave the usual

tokens of her condition. She wasn't a heroine. Her letters were full

of repetition. She wrote rather doubtful grammar sometimes, and in her

verses took all sorts of liberties with the metre. But oh, mesdames,

if you are not allowed to touch the heart sometimes in spite of syntax,

and are not to be loved until you all know the difference between

trimeter and tetrameter, may all Poetry go to the deuce, and every

schoolmaster perish miserably!