Vanity Fair (101 page)

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.