CHAPTER LVIII

Our Friend the Major

Our Major had rendered himself so popular on board the Ramchunder that

when he and Mr. Sedley descended into the welcome shore-boat which was

to take them from the ship, the whole crew, men and officers, the great

Captain Bragg himself leading off, gave three cheers for Major Dobbin,

who blushed very much and ducked his head in token of thanks. Jos, who

very likely thought the cheers were for himself, took off his

gold-laced cap and waved it majestically to his friends, and they were

pulled to shore and landed with great dignity at the pier, whence they

proceeded to the Royal George Hotel.

Although the sight of that magnificent round of beef, and the silver

tankard suggestive of real British home-brewed ale and porter, which

perennially greet the eyes of the traveller returning from foreign

parts who enters the coffee-room of the George, are so invigorating and

delightful that a man entering such a comfortable snug homely English

inn might well like to stop some days there, yet Dobbin began to talk

about a post-chaise instantly, and was no sooner at Southampton than he

wished to be on the road to London. Jos, however, would not hear of

moving that evening. Why was he to pass a night in a post-chaise

instead of a great large undulating downy feather-bed which was there

ready to replace the horrid little narrow crib in which the portly

Bengal gentleman had been confined during the voyage? He could not

think of moving till his baggage was cleared, or of travelling until he

could do so with his chillum. So the Major was forced to wait over

that night, and dispatched a letter to his family announcing his

arrival, entreating from Jos a promise to write to his own friends.

Jos promised, but didn't keep his promise. The Captain, the surgeon,

and one or two passengers came and dined with our two gentlemen at the

inn, Jos exerting himself in a sumptuous way in ordering the dinner and

promising to go to town the next day with the Major. The landlord said

it did his eyes good to see Mr. Sedley take off his first pint of

porter. If I had time and dared to enter into digressions, I would

write a chapter about that first pint of porter drunk upon English

ground. Ah, how good it is! It is worth-while to leave home for a

year, just to enjoy that one draught.

Major Dobbin made his appearance the next morning very neatly shaved

and dressed, according to his wont. Indeed, it was so early in the

morning that nobody was up in the house except that wonderful Boots of

an inn who never seems to want sleep; and the Major could hear the

snores of the various inmates of the house roaring through the

corridors as he creaked about in those dim passages. Then the

sleepless Boots went shirking round from door to door, gathering up at

each the Bluchers, Wellingtons, Oxonians, which stood outside. Then

Jos's native servant arose and began to get ready his master's

ponderous dressing apparatus and prepare his hookah; then the

maidservants got up, and meeting the dark man in the passages,

shrieked, and mistook him for the devil. He and Dobbin stumbled over

their pails in the passages as they were scouring the decks of the

Royal George. When the first unshorn waiter appeared and unbarred the

door of the inn, the Major thought that the time for departure was

arrived, and ordered a post-chaise to be fetched instantly, that they

might set off.

He then directed his steps to Mr. Sedley's room and opened the curtains

of the great large family bed wherein Mr. Jos was snoring. "Come, up!

Sedley," the Major said, "it's time to be off; the chaise will be at

the door in half an hour."

Jos growled from under the counterpane to know what the time was; but

when he at last extorted from the blushing Major (who never told fibs,

however they might be to his advantage) what was the real hour of the

morning, he broke out into a volley of bad language, which we will not

repeat here, but by which he gave Dobbin to understand that he would

jeopardy his soul if he got up at that moment, that the Major might go

and be hanged, that he would not travel with Dobbin, and that it was

most unkind and ungentlemanlike to disturb a man out of his sleep in

that way; on which the discomfited Major was obliged to retreat,

leaving Jos to resume his interrupted slumbers.

The chaise came up presently, and the Major would wait no longer.

If he had been an English nobleman travelling on a pleasure tour, or a

newspaper courier bearing dispatches (government messages are generally

carried much more quietly), he could not have travelled more quickly.

The post-boys wondered at the fees he flung amongst them. How happy and

green the country looked as the chaise whirled rapidly from mile-stone

to mile-stone, through neat country towns where landlords came out to

welcome him with smiles and bows; by pretty roadside inns, where the

signs hung on the elms, and horses and waggoners were drinking under

the chequered shadow of the trees; by old halls and parks; rustic

hamlets clustered round ancient grey churches--and through the charming

friendly English landscape. Is there any in the world like it? To a

traveller returning home it looks so kind--it seems to shake hands with

you as you pass through it. Well, Major Dobbin passed through all this

from Southampton to London, and without noting much beyond the

milestones along the road. You see he was so eager to see his parents

at Camberwell.

He grudged the time lost between Piccadilly and his old haunt at the

Slaughters', whither he drove faithfully. Long years had passed since

he saw it last, since he and George, as young men, had enjoyed many a

feast, and held many a revel there. He had now passed into the stage

of old-fellow-hood. His hair was grizzled, and many a passion and

feeling of his youth had grown grey in that interval. There, however,

stood the old waiter at the door, in the same greasy black suit, with

the same double chin and flaccid face, with the same huge bunch of

seals at his fob, rattling his money in his pockets as before, and

receiving the Major as if he had gone away only a week ago. "Put the

Major's things in twenty-three, that's his room," John said, exhibiting

not the least surprise. "Roast fowl for your dinner, I suppose. You

ain't got married? They said you was married--the Scotch surgeon of

yours was here. No, it was Captain Humby of the thirty-third, as was

quartered with the --th in Injee. Like any warm water? What do you come

in a chay for--ain't the coach good enough?" And with this, the

faithful waiter, who knew and remembered every officer who used the

house, and with whom ten years were but as yesterday, led the way up to

Dobbin's old room, where stood the great moreen bed, and the shabby

carpet, a thought more dingy, and all the old black furniture covered

with faded chintz, just as the Major recollected them in his youth.

He remembered George pacing up and down the room, and biting his nails,

and swearing that the Governor must come round, and that if he didn't,

he didn't care a straw, on the day before he was married. He could

fancy him walking in, banging the door of Dobbin's room, and his own

hard by--

"You ain't got young," John said, calmly surveying his friend of former

days.

Dobbin laughed. "Ten years and a fever don't make a man young, John,"

he said. "It is you that are always young--no, you are always old."

"What became of Captain Osborne's widow?" John said. "Fine young

fellow that. Lord, how he used to spend his money. He never came back

after that day he was marched from here. He owes me three pound at

this minute. Look here, I have it in my book. 'April 10, 1815,

Captain Osborne: 3 pounds.' I wonder whether his father would pay

me," and so saying, John of the Slaughters' pulled out the very morocco

pocket-book in which he had noted his loan to the Captain, upon a

greasy faded page still extant, with many other scrawled memoranda

regarding the bygone frequenters of the house.

Having inducted his customer into the room, John retired with perfect

calmness; and Major Dobbin, not without a blush and a grin at his own

absurdity, chose out of his kit the very smartest and most becoming

civil costume he possessed, and laughed at his own tanned face and grey

hair, as he surveyed them in the dreary little toilet-glass on the

dressing-table.

"I'm glad old John didn't forget me," he thought. "She'll know me, too,

I hope." And he sallied out of the inn, bending his steps once more in

the direction of Brompton.

Every minute incident of his last meeting with Amelia was present to

the constant man's mind as he walked towards her house. The arch and

the Achilles statue were up since he had last been in Piccadilly; a

hundred changes had occurred which his eye and mind vaguely noted. He

began to tremble as he walked up the lane from Brompton, that

well-remembered lane leading to the street where she lived. Was she

going to be married or not? If he were to meet her with the little

boy--Good God, what should he do? He saw a woman coming to him with a

child of five years old--was that she? He began to shake at the mere

possibility. When he came up to the row of houses, at last, where she

lived, and to the gate, he caught hold of it and paused. He might have

heard the thumping of his own heart. "May God Almighty bless her,

whatever has happened," he thought to himself. "Psha! she may be gone

from here," he said and went in through the gate.

The window of the parlour which she used to occupy was open, and there

were no inmates in the room. The Major thought he recognized the

piano, though, with the picture over it, as it used to be in former

days, and his perturbations were renewed. Mr. Clapp's brass plate was

still on the door, at the knocker of which Dobbin performed a summons.

A buxom-looking lass of sixteen, with bright eyes and purple cheeks,

came to answer the knock and looked hard at the Major as he leant back

against the little porch.

He was as pale as a ghost and could hardly falter out the words--"Does

Mrs. Osborne live here?"

She looked him hard in the face for a moment--and then turning white

too--said, "Lord bless me--it's Major Dobbin." She held out both her

hands shaking--"Don't you remember me?" she said. "I used to call you

Major Sugarplums." On which, and I believe it was for the first time

that he ever so conducted himself in his life, the Major took the girl

in his arms and kissed her. She began to laugh and cry hysterically,

and calling out "Ma, Pa!" with all her voice, brought up those worthy

people, who had already been surveying the Major from the casement of

the ornamental kitchen, and were astonished to find their daughter in

the little passage in the embrace of a great tall man in a blue

frock-coat and white duck trousers.

"I'm an old friend," he said--not without blushing though. "Don't you

remember me, Mrs. Clapp, and those good cakes you used to make for tea?

Don't you recollect me, Clapp? I'm George's godfather, and just come

back from India." A great shaking of hands ensued--Mrs. Clapp was

greatly affected and delighted; she called upon heaven to interpose a

vast many times in that passage.

The landlord and landlady of the house led the worthy Major into the

Sedleys' room (whereof he remembered every single article of furniture,

from the old brass ornamented piano, once a natty little instrument,

Stothard maker, to the screens and the alabaster miniature tombstone,

in the midst of which ticked Mr. Sedley's gold watch), and there, as he

sat down in the lodger's vacant arm-chair, the father, the mother, and

the daughter, with a thousand ejaculatory breaks in the narrative,

informed Major Dobbin of what we know already, but of particulars in

Amelia's history of which he was not aware--namely of Mrs. Sedley's

death, of George's reconcilement with his grandfather Osborne, of the

way in which the widow took on at leaving him, and of other particulars

of her life. Twice or thrice he was going to ask about the marriage

question, but his heart failed him. He did not care to lay it bare to

these people. Finally, he was informed that Mrs. O. was gone to walk

with her pa in Kensington Gardens, whither she always went with the old

gentleman (who was very weak and peevish now, and led her a sad life,

though she behaved to him like an angel, to be sure), of a fine

afternoon, after dinner.

"I'm very much pressed for time," the Major said, "and have business

to-night of importance. I should like to see Mrs. Osborne tho'.

Suppose Miss Polly would come with me and show me the way?"

Miss Polly was charmed and astonished at this proposal. She knew the

way. She would show Major Dobbin. She had often been with Mr. Sedley

when Mrs. O. was gone--was gone Russell Square way--and knew the bench

where he liked to sit. She bounced away to her apartment and appeared

presently in her best bonnet and her mamma's yellow shawl and large

pebble brooch, of which she assumed the loan in order to make herself a

worthy companion for the Major.

That officer, then, in his blue frock-coat and buckskin gloves, gave

the young lady his arm, and they walked away very gaily. He was glad

to have a friend at hand for the scene which he dreaded somehow. He

asked a thousand more questions from his companion about Amelia: his

kind heart grieved to think that she should have had to part with her

son. How did she bear it? Did she see him often? Was Mr. Sedley pretty

comfortable now in a worldly point of view? Polly answered all these

questions of Major Sugarplums to the very best of her power.

And in the midst of their walk an incident occurred which, though very

simple in its nature, was productive of the greatest delight to Major

Dobbin. A pale young man with feeble whiskers and a stiff white

neckcloth came walking down the lane, en sandwich--having a lady, that

is, on each arm. One was a tall and commanding middle-aged female,

with features and a complexion similar to those of the clergyman of the

Church of England by whose side she marched, and the other a stunted

little woman with a dark face, ornamented by a fine new bonnet and

white ribbons, and in a smart pelisse, with a rich gold watch in the

midst of her person. The gentleman, pinioned as he was by these two

ladies, carried further a parasol, shawl, and basket, so that his arms

were entirely engaged, and of course he was unable to touch his hat in

acknowledgement of the curtsey with which Miss Mary Clapp greeted him.

He merely bowed his head in reply to her salutation, which the two

ladies returned with a patronizing air, and at the same time looking

severely at the individual in the blue coat and bamboo cane who

accompanied Miss Polly.

"Who's that?" asked the Major, amused by the group, and after he had

made way for the three to pass up the lane. Mary looked at him rather

roguishly.

"That is our curate, the Reverend Mr. Binny (a twitch from Major

Dobbin), and his sister Miss B. Lord bless us, how she did use to

worret us at Sunday-school; and the other lady, the little one with a

cast in her eye and the handsome watch, is Mrs. Binny--Miss Grits that

was; her pa was a grocer, and kept the Little Original Gold Tea Pot in

Kensington Gravel Pits. They were married last month, and are just

come back from Margate. She's five thousand pound to her fortune; but

her and Miss B., who made the match, have quarrelled already."

If the Major had twitched before, he started now, and slapped the

bamboo on the ground with an emphasis which made Miss Clapp cry, "Law,"

and laugh too. He stood for a moment, silent, with open mouth, looking

after the retreating young couple, while Miss Mary told their history;

but he did not hear beyond the announcement of the reverend gentleman's

marriage; his head was swimming with felicity. After this rencontre he

began to walk double quick towards the place of his destination--and

yet they were too soon (for he was in a great tremor at the idea of a

meeting for which he had been longing any time these ten

years)--through the Brompton lanes, and entering at the little old

portal in Kensington Garden wall.

"There they are," said Miss Polly, and she felt him again start back on

her arm. She was a confidante at once of the whole business. She knew

the story as well as if she had read it in one of her favourite

novel-books--Fatherless Fanny, or the Scottish Chiefs.

"Suppose you were to run on and tell her," the Major said. Polly ran

forward, her yellow shawl streaming in the breeze.

Old Sedley was seated on a bench, his handkerchief placed over his

knees, prattling away, according to his wont, with some old story about

old times to which Amelia had listened and awarded a patient smile many

a time before. She could of late think of her own affairs, and smile

or make other marks of recognition of her father's stories, scarcely

hearing a word of the old man's tales. As Mary came bouncing along, and

Amelia caught sight of her, she started up from her bench. Her first

thought was that something had happened to Georgy, but the sight of the

messenger's eager and happy face dissipated that fear in the timorous

mother's bosom.

"News! News!" cried the emissary of Major Dobbin. "He's come! He's

come!"

"Who is come?" said Emmy, still thinking of her son.

"Look there," answered Miss Clapp, turning round and pointing; in which

direction Amelia looking, saw Dobbin's lean figure and long shadow

stalking across the grass. Amelia started in her turn, blushed up,

and, of course, began to cry. At all this simple little creature's

fetes, the grandes eaux were accustomed to play. He looked at her--oh,

how fondly--as she came running towards him, her hands before her,

ready to give them to him. She wasn't changed. She was a little pale,

a little stouter in figure. Her eyes were the same, the kind trustful

eyes. There were scarce three lines of silver in her soft brown hair.

She gave him both her hands as she looked up flushing and smiling

through her tears into his honest homely face. He took the two little

hands between his two and held them there. He was speechless for a

moment. Why did he not take her in his arms and swear that he would

never leave her? She must have yielded: she could not but have obeyed

him.

"I--I've another arrival to announce," he said after a pause.

"Mrs. Dobbin?" Amelia said, making a movement back--why didn't he speak?

"No," he said, letting her hands go: "Who has told you those lies? I

mean, your brother Jos came in the same ship with me, and is come home

to make you all happy."

"Papa, Papa!" Emmy cried out, "here are news! My brother is in

England. He is come to take care of you. Here is Major Dobbin."

Mr. Sedley started up, shaking a great deal and gathering up his

thoughts. Then he stepped forward and made an old-fashioned bow to the

Major, whom he called Mr. Dobbin, and hoped his worthy father, Sir

William, was quite well. He proposed to call upon Sir William, who had

done him the honour of a visit a short time ago. Sir William had not

called upon the old gentleman for eight years--it was that visit he was

thinking of returning.

"He is very much shaken," Emmy whispered as Dobbin went up and

cordially shook hands with the old man.

Although he had such particular business in London that evening, the

Major consented to forego it upon Mr. Sedley's invitation to him to

come home and partake of tea. Amelia put her arm under that of her

young friend with the yellow shawl and headed the party on their return

homewards, so that Mr. Sedley fell to Dobbin's share. The old man

walked very slowly and told a number of ancient histories about himself

and his poor Bessy, his former prosperity, and his bankruptcy. His

thoughts, as is usual with failing old men, were quite in former times.

The present, with the exception of the one catastrophe which he felt,

he knew little about. The Major was glad to let him talk on. His eyes

were fixed upon the figure in front of him--the dear little figure

always present to his imagination and in his prayers, and visiting his

dreams wakeful or slumbering.

Amelia was very happy, smiling, and active all that evening, performing

her duties as hostess of the little entertainment with the utmost grace

and propriety, as Dobbin thought. His eyes followed her about as they

sat in the twilight. How many a time had he longed for that moment and

thought of her far away under hot winds and in weary marches, gentle

and happy, kindly ministering to the wants of old age, and decorating

poverty with sweet submission--as he saw her now. I do not say that

his taste was the highest, or that it is the duty of great intellects

to be content with a bread-and-butter paradise, such as sufficed our

simple old friend; but his desires were of this sort, whether for good

or bad, and, with Amelia to help him, he was as ready to drink as many

cups of tea as Doctor Johnson.

Amelia seeing this propensity, laughingly encouraged it and looked

exceedingly roguish as she administered to him cup after cup. It is

true she did not know that the Major had had no dinner and that the

cloth was laid for him at the Slaughters', and a plate laid thereon to

mark that the table was retained, in that very box in which the Major

and George had sat many a time carousing, when she was a child just

come home from Miss Pinkerton's school.

The first thing Mrs. Osborne showed the Major was Georgy's miniature,

for which she ran upstairs on her arrival at home. It was not half

handsome enough of course for the boy, but wasn't it noble of him to

think of bringing it to his mother? Whilst her papa was awake she did

not talk much about Georgy. To hear about Mr. Osborne and Russell

Square was not agreeable to the old man, who very likely was

unconscious that he had been living for some months past mainly on the

bounty of his richer rival, and lost his temper if allusion was made to

the other.

Dobbin told him all, and a little more perhaps than all, that had

happened on board the Ramchunder, and exaggerated Jos's benevolent

dispositions towards his father and resolution to make him comfortable

in his old days. The truth is that during the voyage the Major had

impressed this duty most strongly upon his fellow-passenger and

extorted promises from him that he would take charge of his sister and

her child. He soothed Jos's irritation with regard to the bills which

the old gentleman had drawn upon him, gave a laughing account of his

own sufferings on the same score and of the famous consignment of wine

with which the old man had favoured him, and brought Mr. Jos, who was

by no means an ill-natured person when well-pleased and moderately

flattered, to a very good state of feeling regarding his relatives in

Europe.

And in fine I am ashamed to say that the Major stretched the truth so

far as to tell old Mr. Sedley that it was mainly a desire to see his

parent which brought Jos once more to Europe.

At his accustomed hour Mr. Sedley began to doze in his chair, and then

it was Amelia's opportunity to commence her conversation, which she did

with great eagerness--it related exclusively to Georgy. She did not

talk at all about her own sufferings at breaking from him, for indeed,

this worthy woman, though she was half-killed by the separation from

the child, yet thought it was very wicked in her to repine at losing

him; but everything concerning him, his virtues, talents, and

prospects, she poured out. She described his angelic beauty; narrated

a hundred instances of his generosity and greatness of mind whilst

living with her; how a Royal Duchess had stopped and admired him in

Kensington Gardens; how splendidly he was cared for now, and how he had

a groom and a pony; what quickness and cleverness he had, and what a

prodigiously well-read and delightful person the Reverend Lawrence Veal

was, George's master. "He knows EVERYTHING," Amelia said. "He has the

most delightful parties. You who are so learned yourself, and have

read so much, and are so clever and accomplished--don't shake your head

and say no--HE always used to say you were--you will be charmed with

Mr. Veal's parties. The last Tuesday in every month. He says there is

no place in the bar or the senate that Georgy may not aspire to. Look

here," and she went to the piano-drawer and drew out a theme of

Georgy's composition. This great effort of genius, which is still in

the possession of George's mother, is as follows:

On Selfishness--Of all the vices which degrade the human character,

Selfishness is the most odious and contemptible. An undue love of Self

leads to the most monstrous crimes and occasions the greatest

misfortunes both in States and Families. As a selfish man will

impoverish his family and often bring them to ruin, so a selfish king

brings ruin on his people and often plunges them into war.

Example: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer,

occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks--muri Achaiois alge

etheke--(Hom. Il. A. 2). The selfishness of the late Napoleon Bonaparte

occasioned innumerable wars in Europe and caused him to perish,

himself, in a miserable island--that of Saint Helena in the Atlantic

Ocean.

We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own interest

and ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others as

well as our own.

George S. Osborne Athene House, 24 April, 1827

"Think of him writing such a hand, and quoting Greek too, at his age,"

the delighted mother said. "Oh, William," she added, holding out her

hand to the Major, "what a treasure Heaven has given me in that boy!

He is the comfort of my life--and he is the image of--of him that's

gone!"

"Ought I to be angry with her for being faithful to him?" William

thought. "Ought I to be jealous of my friend in the grave, or hurt

that such a heart as Amelia's can love only once and for ever? Oh,

George, George, how little you knew the prize you had, though." This

sentiment passed rapidly through William's mind as he was holding

Amelia's hand, whilst the handkerchief was veiling her eyes.

"Dear friend," she said, pressing the hand which held hers, "how good,

how kind you always have been to me! See! Papa is stirring. You will

go and see Georgy tomorrow, won't you?"

"Not to-morrow," said poor old Dobbin. "I have business." He did not

like to own that he had not as yet been to his parents' and his dear

sister Anne--a remissness for which I am sure every well-regulated

person will blame the Major. And presently he took his leave, leaving

his address behind him for Jos, against the latter's arrival. And so

the first day was over, and he had seen her.

When he got back to the Slaughters', the roast fowl was of course cold,

in which condition he ate it for supper. And knowing what early hours

his family kept, and that it would be needless to disturb their

slumbers at so late an hour, it is on record, that Major Dobbin treated

himself to half-price at the Haymarket Theatre that evening, where let

us hope he enjoyed himself.