CHAPTER XX

In Which Captain Dobbin Acts as the Messenger of Hymen

Without knowing how, Captain William Dobbin found himself the great

promoter, arranger, and manager of the match between George Osborne and

Amelia. But for him it never would have taken place: he could not but

confess as much to himself, and smiled rather bitterly as he thought

that he of all men in the world should be the person upon whom the care

of this marriage had fallen. But though indeed the conducting of this

negotiation was about as painful a task as could be set to him, yet

when he had a duty to perform, Captain Dobbin was accustomed to go

through it without many words or much hesitation: and, having made up

his mind completely, that if Miss Sedley was balked of her husband she

would die of the disappointment, he was determined to use all his best

endeavours to keep her alive.

I forbear to enter into minute particulars of the interview between

George and Amelia, when the former was brought back to the feet (or

should we venture to say the arms?) of his young mistress by the

intervention of his friend honest William. A much harder heart than

George's would have melted at the sight of that sweet face so sadly

ravaged by grief and despair, and at the simple tender accents in which

she told her little broken-hearted story: but as she did not faint when

her mother, trembling, brought Osborne to her; and as she only gave

relief to her overcharged grief, by laying her head on her lover's

shoulder and there weeping for a while the most tender, copious, and

refreshing tears--old Mrs. Sedley, too greatly relieved, thought it was

best to leave the young persons to themselves; and so quitted Emmy

crying over George's hand, and kissing it humbly, as if he were her

supreme chief and master, and as if she were quite a guilty and

unworthy person needing every favour and grace from him.

This prostration and sweet unrepining obedience exquisitely touched and

flattered George Osborne. He saw a slave before him in that simple

yielding faithful creature, and his soul within him thrilled secretly

somehow at the knowledge of his power. He would be generous-minded,

Sultan as he was, and raise up this kneeling Esther and make a queen of

her: besides, her sadness and beauty touched him as much as her

submission, and so he cheered her, and raised her up and forgave her,

so to speak. All her hopes and feelings, which were dying and

withering, this her sun having been removed from her, bloomed again and

at once, its light being restored. You would scarcely have recognised

the beaming little face upon Amelia's pillow that night as the one that

was laid there the night before, so wan, so lifeless, so careless of

all round about. The honest Irish maid-servant, delighted with the

change, asked leave to kiss the face that had grown all of a sudden so

rosy. Amelia put her arms round the girl's neck and kissed her with

all her heart, like a child. She was little more. She had that night

a sweet refreshing sleep, like one--and what a spring of inexpressible

happiness as she woke in the morning sunshine!

"He will be here again to-day," Amelia thought. "He is the greatest

and best of men." And the fact is, that George thought he was one of

the generousest creatures alive: and that he was making a tremendous

sacrifice in marrying this young creature.

While she and Osborne were having their delightful tete-a-tete above

stairs, old Mrs. Sedley and Captain Dobbin were conversing below upon

the state of the affairs, and the chances and future arrangements of

the young people. Mrs. Sedley having brought the two lovers together

and left them embracing each other with all their might, like a true

woman, was of opinion that no power on earth would induce Mr. Sedley to

consent to the match between his daughter and the son of a man who had

so shamefully, wickedly, and monstrously treated him. And she told a

long story about happier days and their earlier splendours, when

Osborne lived in a very humble way in the New Road, and his wife was

too glad to receive some of Jos's little baby things, with which Mrs.

Sedley accommodated her at the birth of one of Osborne's own children.

The fiendish ingratitude of that man, she was sure, had broken Mr. S.'s

heart: and as for a marriage, he would never, never, never, never

consent.

"They must run away together, Ma'am," Dobbin said, laughing, "and

follow the example of Captain Rawdon Crawley, and Miss Emmy's friend

the little governess." Was it possible? Well she never! Mrs. Sedley

was all excitement about this news. She wished that Blenkinsop were

here to hear it: Blenkinsop always mistrusted that Miss Sharp.-- What

an escape Jos had had! and she described the already well-known

love-passages between Rebecca and the Collector of Boggley Wollah.

It was not, however, Mr. Sedley's wrath which Dobbin feared, so much as

that of the other parent concerned, and he owned that he had a very

considerable doubt and anxiety respecting the behaviour of the

black-browed old tyrant of a Russia merchant in Russell Square. He has

forbidden the match peremptorily, Dobbin thought. He knew what a savage

determined man Osborne was, and how he stuck by his word. "The only

chance George has of reconcilement," argued his friend, "is by

distinguishing himself in the coming campaign. If he dies they both go

together. If he fails in distinction--what then? He has some money

from his mother, I have heard enough to purchase his majority--or he

must sell out and go and dig in Canada, or rough it in a cottage in the

country." With such a partner Dobbin thought he would not mind

Siberia--and, strange to say, this absurd and utterly imprudent young

fellow never for a moment considered that the want of means to keep a

nice carriage and horses, and of an income which should enable its

possessors to entertain their friends genteelly, ought to operate as

bars to the union of George and Miss Sedley.

It was these weighty considerations which made him think too that the

marriage should take place as quickly as possible. Was he anxious

himself, I wonder, to have it over?--as people, when death has

occurred, like to press forward the funeral, or when a parting is

resolved upon, hasten it. It is certain that Mr. Dobbin, having taken

the matter in hand, was most extraordinarily eager in the conduct of

it. He urged on George the necessity of immediate action: he showed

the chances of reconciliation with his father, which a favourable

mention of his name in the Gazette must bring about. If need were he

would go himself and brave both the fathers in the business. At all

events, he besought George to go through with it before the orders

came, which everybody expected, for the departure of the regiment from

England on foreign service.

Bent upon these hymeneal projects, and with the applause and consent of

Mrs. Sedley, who did not care to break the matter personally to her

husband, Mr. Dobbin went to seek John Sedley at his house of call in

the City, the Tapioca Coffee-house, where, since his own offices were

shut up, and fate had overtaken him, the poor broken-down old

gentleman used to betake himself daily, and write letters and receive

them, and tie them up into mysterious bundles, several of which he

carried in the flaps of his coat. I don't know anything more dismal

than that business and bustle and mystery of a ruined man: those

letters from the wealthy which he shows you: those worn greasy

documents promising support and offering condolence which he places

wistfully before you, and on which he builds his hopes of restoration

and future fortune. My beloved reader has no doubt in the course of his

experience been waylaid by many such a luckless companion. He takes

you into the corner; he has his bundle of papers out of his gaping coat

pocket; and the tape off, and the string in his mouth, and the

favourite letters selected and laid before you; and who does not know

the sad eager half-crazy look which he fixes on you with his hopeless

eyes?

Changed into a man of this sort, Dobbin found the once florid, jovial,

and prosperous John Sedley. His coat, that used to be so glossy and

trim, was white at the seams, and the buttons showed the copper. His

face had fallen in, and was unshorn; his frill and neckcloth hung limp

under his bagging waistcoat. When he used to treat the boys in old

days at a coffee-house, he would shout and laugh louder than anybody

there, and have all the waiters skipping round him; it was quite

painful to see how humble and civil he was to John of the Tapioca, a

blear-eyed old attendant in dingy stockings and cracked pumps, whose

business it was to serve glasses of wafers, and bumpers of ink in

pewter, and slices of paper to the frequenters of this dreary house of

entertainment, where nothing else seemed to be consumed. As for

William Dobbin, whom he had tipped repeatedly in his youth, and who had

been the old gentleman's butt on a thousand occasions, old Sedley gave

his hand to him in a very hesitating humble manner now, and called him

"Sir." A feeling of shame and remorse took possession of William Dobbin

as the broken old man so received and addressed him, as if he himself

had been somehow guilty of the misfortunes which had brought Sedley so

low.

"I am very glad to see you, Captain Dobbin, sir," says he, after a

skulking look or two at his visitor (whose lanky figure and military

appearance caused some excitement likewise to twinkle in the blear eyes

of the waiter in the cracked dancing pumps, and awakened the old lady

in black, who dozed among the mouldy old coffee-cups in the bar). "How

is the worthy alderman, and my lady, your excellent mother, sir?" He

looked round at the waiter as he said, "My lady," as much as to say,

"Hark ye, John, I have friends still, and persons of rank and

reputation, too." "Are you come to do anything in my way, sir? My

young friends Dale and Spiggot do all my business for me now, until my

new offices are ready; for I'm only here temporarily, you know,

Captain. What can we do for you, sir? Will you like to take anything?"

Dobbin, with a great deal of hesitation and stuttering, protested that

he was not in the least hungry or thirsty; that he had no business to

transact; that he only came to ask if Mr. Sedley was well, and to shake

hands with an old friend; and, he added, with a desperate perversion of

truth, "My mother is very well--that is, she's been very unwell, and is

only waiting for the first fine day to go out and call upon Mrs.

Sedley. How is Mrs. Sedley, sir? I hope she's quite well." And here

he paused, reflecting on his own consummate hypocrisy; for the day was

as fine, and the sunshine as bright as it ever is in Coffin Court,

where the Tapioca Coffee-house is situated: and Mr. Dobbin remembered

that he had seen Mrs. Sedley himself only an hour before, having driven

Osborne down to Fulham in his gig, and left him there tete-a-tete with

Miss Amelia.

"My wife will be very happy to see her ladyship," Sedley replied,

pulling out his papers. "I've a very kind letter here from your

father, sir, and beg my respectful compliments to him. Lady D. will

find us in rather a smaller house than we were accustomed to receive

our friends in; but it's snug, and the change of air does good to my

daughter, who was suffering in town rather--you remember little Emmy,

sir?--yes, suffering a good deal." The old gentleman's eyes were

wandering as he spoke, and he was thinking of something else, as he

sate thrumming on his papers and fumbling at the worn red tape.

"You're a military man," he went on; "I ask you, Bill Dobbin, could any

man ever have speculated upon the return of that Corsican scoundrel

from Elba? When the allied sovereigns were here last year, and we gave

'em that dinner in the City, sir, and we saw the Temple of Concord, and

the fireworks, and the Chinese bridge in St. James's Park, could any

sensible man suppose that peace wasn't really concluded, after we'd

actually sung Te Deum for it, sir? I ask you, William, could I suppose

that the Emperor of Austria was a damned traitor--a traitor, and

nothing more? I don't mince words--a double-faced infernal traitor and

schemer, who meant to have his son-in-law back all along. And I say

that the escape of Boney from Elba was a damned imposition and plot,

sir, in which half the powers of Europe were concerned, to bring the

funds down, and to ruin this country. That's why I'm here, William.

That's why my name's in the Gazette. Why, sir?--because I trusted the

Emperor of Russia and the Prince Regent. Look here. Look at my

papers. Look what the funds were on the 1st of March--what the French

fives were when I bought for the count. And what they're at now.

There was collusion, sir, or that villain never would have escaped.

Where was the English Commissioner who allowed him to get away? He

ought to be shot, sir--brought to a court-martial, and shot, by Jove."

"We're going to hunt Boney out, sir," Dobbin said, rather alarmed at

the fury of the old man, the veins of whose forehead began to swell,

and who sate drumming his papers with his clenched fist. "We are going

to hunt him out, sir--the Duke's in Belgium already, and we expect

marching orders every day."

"Give him no quarter. Bring back the villain's head, sir. Shoot the

coward down, sir," Sedley roared. "I'd enlist myself, by--; but I'm a

broken old man--ruined by that damned scoundrel--and by a parcel of

swindling thieves in this country whom I made, sir, and who are rolling

in their carriages now," he added, with a break in his voice.

Dobbin was not a little affected by the sight of this once kind old

friend, crazed almost with misfortune and raving with senile anger.

Pity the fallen gentleman: you to whom money and fair repute are the

chiefest good; and so, surely, are they in Vanity Fair.

"Yes," he continued, "there are some vipers that you warm, and they

sting you afterwards. There are some beggars that you put on

horseback, and they're the first to ride you down. You know whom I

mean, William Dobbin, my boy. I mean a purse-proud villain in Russell

Square, whom I knew without a shilling, and whom I pray and hope to see

a beggar as he was when I befriended him."

"I have heard something of this, sir, from my friend George," Dobbin

said, anxious to come to his point. "The quarrel between you and his

father has cut him up a great deal, sir. Indeed, I'm the bearer of a

message from him."

"O, THAT'S your errand, is it?" cried the old man, jumping up. "What!

perhaps he condoles with me, does he? Very kind of him, the

stiff-backed prig, with his dandified airs and West End swagger. He's

hankering about my house, is he still? If my son had the courage of a

man, he'd shoot him. He's as big a villain as his father. I won't

have his name mentioned in my house. I curse the day that ever I let

him into it; and I'd rather see my daughter dead at my feet than

married to him."

"His father's harshness is not George's fault, sir. Your daughter's

love for him is as much your doing as his. Who are you, that you are

to play with two young people's affections and break their hearts at

your will?"

"Recollect it's not his father that breaks the match off," old Sedley

cried out. "It's I that forbid it. That family and mine are separated

for ever. I'm fallen low, but not so low as that: no, no. And so you

may tell the whole race--son, and father and sisters, and all."

"It's my belief, sir, that you have not the power or the right to

separate those two," Dobbin answered in a low voice; "and that if you

don't give your daughter your consent it will be her duty to marry

without it. There's no reason she should die or live miserably because

you are wrong-headed. To my thinking, she's just as much married as if

the banns had been read in all the churches in London. And what better

answer can there be to Osborne's charges against you, as charges there

are, than that his son claims to enter your family and marry your

daughter?"

A light of something like satisfaction seemed to break over old Sedley

as this point was put to him: but he still persisted that with his

consent the marriage between Amelia and George should never take place.

"We must do it without," Dobbin said, smiling, and told Mr. Sedley, as

he had told Mrs. Sedley in the day, before, the story of Rebecca's

elopement with Captain Crawley. It evidently amused the old gentleman.

"You're terrible fellows, you Captains," said he, tying up his papers;

and his face wore something like a smile upon it, to the astonishment

of the blear-eyed waiter who now entered, and had never seen such an

expression upon Sedley's countenance since he had used the dismal

coffee-house.

The idea of hitting his enemy Osborne such a blow soothed, perhaps, the

old gentleman: and, their colloquy presently ending, he and Dobbin

parted pretty good friends.

"My sisters say she has diamonds as big as pigeons' eggs," George said,

laughing. "How they must set off her complexion! A perfect

illumination it must be when her jewels are on her neck. Her

jet-black hair is as curly as Sambo's. I dare say she wore a nose ring

when she went to court; and with a plume of feathers in her top-knot

she would look a perfect Belle Sauvage."

George, in conversation with Amelia, was rallying the appearance of a

young lady of whom his father and sisters had lately made the

acquaintance, and who was an object of vast respect to the Russell

Square family. She was reported to have I don't know how many

plantations in the West Indies; a deal of money in the funds; and three

stars to her name in the East India stockholders' list. She had a

mansion in Surrey, and a house in Portland Place. The name of the rich

West India heiress had been mentioned with applause in the Morning

Post. Mrs. Haggistoun, Colonel Haggistoun's widow, her relative,

"chaperoned" her, and kept her house. She was just from school, where

she had completed her education, and George and his sisters had met her

at an evening party at old Hulker's house, Devonshire Place (Hulker,

Bullock, and Co. were long the correspondents of her house in the West

Indies), and the girls had made the most cordial advances to her, which

the heiress had received with great good humour. An orphan in her

position--with her money--so interesting! the Misses Osborne said.

They were full of their new friend when they returned from the Hulker

ball to Miss Wirt, their companion; they had made arrangements for

continually meeting, and had the carriage and drove to see her the very

next day. Mrs. Haggistoun, Colonel Haggistoun's widow, a relation of

Lord Binkie, and always talking of him, struck the dear unsophisticated

girls as rather haughty, and too much inclined to talk about her great

relations: but Rhoda was everything they could wish--the frankest,

kindest, most agreeable creature--wanting a little polish, but so

good-natured. The girls Christian-named each other at once.

"You should have seen her dress for court, Emmy," Osborne cried,

laughing. "She came to my sisters to show it off, before she was

presented in state by my Lady Binkie, the Haggistoun's kinswoman. She's

related to every one, that Haggistoun. Her diamonds blazed out like

Vauxhall on the night we were there. (Do you remember Vauxhall, Emmy,

and Jos singing to his dearest diddle diddle darling?) Diamonds and

mahogany, my dear! think what an advantageous contrast--and the white

feathers in her hair--I mean in her wool. She had earrings like

chandeliers; you might have lighted 'em up, by Jove--and a yellow satin

train that streeled after her like the tail of a comet."

"How old is she?" asked Emmy, to whom George was rattling away

regarding this dark paragon, on the morning of their reunion--rattling

away as no other man in the world surely could.

"Why the Black Princess, though she has only just left school, must be

two or three and twenty. And you should see the hand she writes! Mrs.

Colonel Haggistoun usually writes her letters, but in a moment of

confidence, she put pen to paper for my sisters; she spelt satin

satting, and Saint James's, Saint Jams."

"Why, surely it must be Miss Swartz, the parlour boarder," Emmy said,

remembering that good-natured young mulatto girl, who had been so

hysterically affected when Amelia left Miss Pinkerton's academy.

"The very name," George said. "Her father was a German Jew--a

slave-owner they say--connected with the Cannibal Islands in some way

or other. He died last year, and Miss Pinkerton has finished her

education. She can play two pieces on the piano; she knows three

songs; she can write when Mrs. Haggistoun is by to spell for her; and

Jane and Maria already have got to love her as a sister."

"I wish they would have loved me," said Emmy, wistfully. "They were

always very cold to me."

"My dear child, they would have loved you if you had had two hundred

thousand pounds," George replied. "That is the way in which they have

been brought up. Ours is a ready-money society. We live among bankers

and City big-wigs, and be hanged to them, and every man, as he talks to

you, is jingling his guineas in his pocket. There is that jackass Fred

Bullock is going to marry Maria--there's Goldmore, the East India

Director, there's Dipley, in the tallow trade--OUR trade," George said,

with an uneasy laugh and a blush. "Curse the whole pack of

money-grubbing vulgarians! I fall asleep at their great heavy dinners.

I feel ashamed in my father's great stupid parties. I've been

accustomed to live with gentlemen, and men of the world and fashion,

Emmy, not with a parcel of turtle-fed tradesmen. Dear little woman,

you are the only person of our set who ever looked, or thought, or

spoke like a lady: and you do it because you're an angel and can't help

it. Don't remonstrate. You are the only lady. Didn't Miss Crawley

remark it, who has lived in the best company in Europe? And as for

Crawley, of the Life Guards, hang it, he's a fine fellow: and I like

him for marrying the girl he had chosen."

Amelia admired Mr. Crawley very much, too, for this; and trusted

Rebecca would be happy with him, and hoped (with a laugh) Jos would be

consoled. And so the pair went on prattling, as in quite early days.

Amelia's confidence being perfectly restored to her, though she

expressed a great deal of pretty jealousy about Miss Swartz, and

professed to be dreadfully frightened--like a hypocrite as she was--lest

George should forget her for the heiress and her money and her

estates in Saint Kitt's. But the fact is, she was a great deal too

happy to have fears or doubts or misgivings of any sort: and having

George at her side again, was not afraid of any heiress or beauty, or

indeed of any sort of danger.

When Captain Dobbin came back in the afternoon to these people--which

he did with a great deal of sympathy for them--it did his heart good to

see how Amelia had grown young again--how she laughed, and chirped, and

sang familiar old songs at the piano, which were only interrupted by

the bell from without proclaiming Mr. Sedley's return from the City,

before whom George received a signal to retreat.

Beyond the first smile of recognition--and even that was an hypocrisy,

for she thought his arrival rather provoking--Miss Sedley did not once

notice Dobbin during his visit. But he was content, so that he saw her

happy; and thankful to have been the means of making her so.