CHAPTER XXII

A Marriage and Part of a Honeymoon

Enemies the most obstinate and courageous can't hold out against

starvation; so the elder Osborne felt himself pretty easy about his

adversary in the encounter we have just described; and as soon as

George's supplies fell short, confidently expected his unconditional

submission. It was unlucky, to be sure, that the lad should have

secured a stock of provisions on the very day when the first encounter

took place; but this relief was only temporary, old Osborne thought,

and would but delay George's surrender. No communication passed

between father and son for some days. The former was sulky at this

silence, but not disquieted; for, as he said, he knew where he could

put the screw upon George, and only waited the result of that

operation. He told the sisters the upshot of the dispute between them,

but ordered them to take no notice of the matter, and welcome George on

his return as if nothing had happened. His cover was laid as usual

every day, and perhaps the old gentleman rather anxiously expected him;

but he never came. Some one inquired at the Slaughters' regarding him,

where it was said that he and his friend Captain Dobbin had left town.

One gusty, raw day at the end of April--the rain whipping the pavement

of that ancient street where the old Slaughters' Coffee-house was once

situated--George Osborne came into the coffee-room, looking very

haggard and pale; although dressed rather smartly in a blue coat and

brass buttons, and a neat buff waistcoat of the fashion of those days.

Here was his friend Captain Dobbin, in blue and brass too, having

abandoned the military frock and French-grey trousers, which were the

usual coverings of his lanky person.

Dobbin had been in the coffee-room for an hour or more. He had tried

all the papers, but could not read them. He had looked at the clock

many scores of times; and at the street, where the rain was pattering

down, and the people as they clinked by in pattens, left long

reflections on the shining stone: he tattooed at the table: he bit his

nails most completely, and nearly to the quick (he was accustomed to

ornament his great big hands in this way): he balanced the tea-spoon

dexterously on the milk jug: upset it, &c., &c.; and in fact showed

those signs of disquietude, and practised those desperate attempts at

amusement, which men are accustomed to employ when very anxious, and

expectant, and perturbed in mind.

Some of his comrades, gentlemen who used the room, joked him about the

splendour of his costume and his agitation of manner. One asked him if

he was going to be married? Dobbin laughed, and said he would send his

acquaintance (Major Wagstaff of the Engineers) a piece of cake when

that event took place. At length Captain Osborne made his appearance,

very smartly dressed, but very pale and agitated as we have said. He

wiped his pale face with a large yellow bandanna pocket-handkerchief

that was prodigiously scented. He shook hands with Dobbin, looked at

the clock, and told John, the waiter, to bring him some curacao. Of

this cordial he swallowed off a couple of glasses with nervous

eagerness. His friend asked with some interest about his health.

"Couldn't get a wink of sleep till daylight, Dob," said he. "Infernal

headache and fever. Got up at nine, and went down to the Hummums for a

bath. I say, Dob, I feel just as I did on the morning I went out with

Rocket at Quebec."

"So do I," William responded. "I was a deuced deal more nervous than

you were that morning. You made a famous breakfast, I remember. Eat

something now."

"You're a good old fellow, Will. I'll drink your health, old boy, and

farewell to--"

"No, no; two glasses are enough," Dobbin interrupted him. "Here, take

away the liqueurs, John. Have some cayenne-pepper with your fowl.

Make haste though, for it is time we were there."

It was about half an hour from twelve when this brief meeting and

colloquy took place between the two captains. A coach, into which

Captain Osborne's servant put his master's desk and dressing-case, had

been in waiting for some time; and into this the two gentlemen hurried

under an umbrella, and the valet mounted on the box, cursing the rain

and the dampness of the coachman who was steaming beside him. "We

shall find a better trap than this at the church-door," says he;

"that's a comfort." And the carriage drove on, taking the road down

Piccadilly, where Apsley House and St. George's Hospital wore red

jackets still; where there were oil-lamps; where Achilles was not yet

born; nor the Pimlico arch raised; nor the hideous equestrian monster

which pervades it and the neighbourhood; and so they drove down by

Brompton to a certain chapel near the Fulham Road there.

A chariot was in waiting with four horses; likewise a coach of the kind

called glass coaches. Only a very few idlers were collected on account

of the dismal rain.

"Hang it!" said George, "I said only a pair."

"My master would have four," said Mr. Joseph Sedley's servant, who was

in waiting; and he and Mr. Osborne's man agreed as they followed George

and William into the church, that it was a "reg'lar shabby turn hout;

and with scarce so much as a breakfast or a wedding faviour."

"Here you are," said our old friend, Jos Sedley, coming forward.

"You're five minutes late, George, my boy. What a day, eh? Demmy, it's

like the commencement of the rainy season in Bengal. But you'll find

my carriage is watertight. Come along, my mother and Emmy are in the

vestry."

Jos Sedley was splendid. He was fatter than ever. His shirt collars

were higher; his face was redder; his shirt-frill flaunted gorgeously

out of his variegated waistcoat. Varnished boots were not invented as

yet; but the Hessians on his beautiful legs shone so, that they must

have been the identical pair in which the gentleman in the old picture

used to shave himself; and on his light green coat there bloomed a fine

wedding favour, like a great white spreading magnolia.

In a word, George had thrown the great cast. He was going to be

married. Hence his pallor and nervousness--his sleepless night and

agitation in the morning. I have heard people who have gone through

the same thing own to the same emotion. After three or four

ceremonies, you get accustomed to it, no doubt; but the first dip,

everybody allows, is awful.

The bride was dressed in a brown silk pelisse (as Captain Dobbin has

since informed me), and wore a straw bonnet with a pink ribbon; over

the bonnet she had a veil of white Chantilly lace, a gift from Mr.

Joseph Sedley, her brother. Captain Dobbin himself had asked leave to

present her with a gold chain and watch, which she sported on this

occasion; and her mother gave her her diamond brooch--almost the only

trinket which was left to the old lady. As the service went on, Mrs.

Sedley sat and whimpered a great deal in a pew, consoled by the Irish

maid-servant and Mrs. Clapp from the lodgings. Old Sedley would not be

present. Jos acted for his father, giving away the bride, whilst

Captain Dobbin stepped up as groomsman to his friend George.

There was nobody in the church besides the officiating persons and the

small marriage party and their attendants. The two valets sat aloof

superciliously. The rain came rattling down on the windows. In the

intervals of the service you heard it, and the sobbing of old Mrs.

Sedley in the pew. The parson's tones echoed sadly through the empty

walls. Osborne's "I will" was sounded in very deep bass. Emmy's

response came fluttering up to her lips from her heart, but was

scarcely heard by anybody except Captain Dobbin.

When the service was completed, Jos Sedley came forward and kissed his

sister, the bride, for the first time for many months--George's look of

gloom had gone, and he seemed quite proud and radiant. "It's your turn,

William," says he, putting his hand fondly upon Dobbin's shoulder; and

Dobbin went up and touched Amelia on the cheek.

Then they went into the vestry and signed the register. "God bless you,

Old Dobbin," George said, grasping him by the hand, with something very

like moisture glistening in his eyes. William replied only by nodding

his head. His heart was too full to say much.

"Write directly, and come down as soon as you can, you know," Osborne

said. After Mrs. Sedley had taken an hysterical adieu of her daughter,

the pair went off to the carriage. "Get out of the way, you little

devils," George cried to a small crowd of damp urchins, that were

hanging about the chapel-door. The rain drove into the bride and

bridegroom's faces as they passed to the chariot. The postilions'

favours draggled on their dripping jackets. The few children made a

dismal cheer, as the carriage, splashing mud, drove away.

William Dobbin stood in the church-porch, looking at it, a queer

figure. The small crew of spectators jeered him. He was not thinking

about them or their laughter.

"Come home and have some tiffin, Dobbin," a voice cried behind him; as

a pudgy hand was laid on his shoulder, and the honest fellow's reverie

was interrupted. But the Captain had no heart to go a-feasting with

Jos Sedley. He put the weeping old lady and her attendants into the

carriage along with Jos, and left them without any farther words

passing. This carriage, too, drove away, and the urchins gave another

sarcastical cheer.

"Here, you little beggars," Dobbin said, giving some sixpences amongst

them, and then went off by himself through the rain. It was all over.

They were married, and happy, he prayed God. Never since he was a boy

had he felt so miserable and so lonely. He longed with a heart-sick

yearning for the first few days to be over, that he might see her again.

Some ten days after the above ceremony, three young men of our

acquaintance were enjoying that beautiful prospect of bow windows on

the one side and blue sea on the other, which Brighton affords to the

traveller. Sometimes it is towards the ocean--smiling with countless

dimples, speckled with white sails, with a hundred bathing-machines

kissing the skirt of his blue garment--that the Londoner looks

enraptured: sometimes, on the contrary, a lover of human nature rather

than of prospects of any kind, it is towards the bow windows that he

turns, and that swarm of human life which they exhibit. From one issue

the notes of a piano, which a young lady in ringlets practises six

hours daily, to the delight of the fellow-lodgers: at another, lovely

Polly, the nurse-maid, may be seen dandling Master Omnium in her arms:

whilst Jacob, his papa, is beheld eating prawns, and devouring the

Times for breakfast, at the window below. Yonder are the Misses Leery,

who are looking out for the young officers of the Heavies, who are

pretty sure to be pacing the cliff; or again it is a City man, with a

nautical turn, and a telescope, the size of a six-pounder, who has his

instrument pointed seawards, so as to command every pleasure-boat,

herring-boat, or bathing-machine that comes to, or quits, the shore,

&c., &c. But have we any leisure for a description of Brighton?--for

Brighton, a clean Naples with genteel lazzaroni--for Brighton, that

always looks brisk, gay, and gaudy, like a harlequin's jacket--for

Brighton, which used to be seven hours distant from London at the time

of our story; which is now only a hundred minutes off; and which may

approach who knows how much nearer, unless Joinville comes and untimely

bombards it?

"What a monstrous fine girl that is in the lodgings over the

milliner's," one of these three promenaders remarked to the other;

"Gad, Crawley, did you see what a wink she gave me as I passed?"

"Don't break her heart, Jos, you rascal," said another. "Don't trifle

with her affections, you Don Juan!"

"Get away," said Jos Sedley, quite pleased, and leering up at the

maid-servant in question with a most killing ogle. Jos was even more

splendid at Brighton than he had been at his sister's marriage. He had

brilliant under-waistcoats, any one of which would have set up a

moderate buck. He sported a military frock-coat, ornamented with frogs,

knobs, black buttons, and meandering embroidery. He had affected a

military appearance and habits of late; and he walked with his two

friends, who were of that profession, clinking his boot-spurs,

swaggering prodigiously, and shooting death-glances at all the servant

girls who were worthy to be slain.

"What shall we do, boys, till the ladies return?" the buck asked. The

ladies were out to Rottingdean in his carriage on a drive.

"Let's have a game at billiards," one of his friends said--the tall

one, with lacquered mustachios.

"No, dammy; no, Captain," Jos replied, rather alarmed. "No billiards

to-day, Crawley, my boy; yesterday was enough."

"You play very well," said Crawley, laughing. "Don't he, Osborne? How

well he made that five stroke, eh?"

"Famous," Osborne said. "Jos is a devil of a fellow at billiards, and

at everything else, too. I wish there were any tiger-hunting about

here! we might go and kill a few before dinner. (There goes a fine

girl! what an ankle, eh, Jos?) Tell us that story about the tiger-hunt,

and the way you did for him in the jungle--it's a wonderful story that,

Crawley." Here George Osborne gave a yawn. "It's rather slow work,"

said he, "down here; what shall we do?"

"Shall we go and look at some horses that Snaffler's just brought from

Lewes fair?" Crawley said.

"Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's," and the rogue Jos,

willing to kill two birds with one stone. "Devilish fine gal at

Dutton's."

"Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in, it's just about time?"

George said. This advice prevailing over the stables and the jelly,

they turned towards the coach-office to witness the Lightning's arrival.

As they passed, they met the carriage--Jos Sedley's open carriage, with

its magnificent armorial bearings--that splendid conveyance in which he

used to drive, about at Cheltenham, majestic and solitary, with his

arms folded, and his hat cocked; or, more happy, with ladies by his

side.

Two were in the carriage now: one a little person, with light hair, and

dressed in the height of the fashion; the other in a brown silk

pelisse, and a straw bonnet with pink ribbons, with a rosy, round,

happy face, that did you good to behold. She checked the carriage as

it neared the three gentlemen, after which exercise of authority she

looked rather nervous, and then began to blush most absurdly. "We have

had a delightful drive, George," she said, "and--and we're so glad to

come back; and, Joseph, don't let him be late."

"Don't be leading our husbands into mischief, Mr. Sedley, you wicked,

wicked man you," Rebecca said, shaking at Jos a pretty little finger

covered with the neatest French kid glove. "No billiards, no smoking,

no naughtiness!"

"My dear Mrs. Crawley--Ah now! upon my honour!" was all Jos could

ejaculate by way of reply; but he managed to fall into a tolerable

attitude, with his head lying on his shoulder, grinning upwards at his

victim, with one hand at his back, which he supported on his cane, and

the other hand (the one with the diamond ring) fumbling in his

shirt-frill and among his under-waistcoats. As the carriage drove off

he kissed the diamond hand to the fair ladies within. He wished all

Cheltenham, all Chowringhee, all Calcutta, could see him in that

position, waving his hand to such a beauty, and in company with such a

famous buck as Rawdon Crawley of the Guards.

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.