CHAPTER XXIII

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 glass, 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."

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.