Vanity Fair (19 page)

"What an innocent it is, that pet of yours," Miss Maria would then
say to Miss Jane, upon the Captain's departure. "Did you see how he
blushed at the mention of poor George on duty?"

"It's a pity Frederick Bullock hadn't some of his modesty, Maria,"
replies the elder sister, with a toss of he head.

"Modesty! Awkwardness you mean, Jane. I don't want Frederick to
trample a hole in my muslin frock, as Captain Dobbin did in yours at
Mrs. Perkins'."

"In YOUR frock, he, he! How could he? Wasn't he dancing with
Amelia?"

The fact is, when Captain Dobbin blushed so, and looked so awkward,
he remembered a circumstance of which he did not think it was
necessary to inform the young ladies, viz., that he had been calling
at Mr. Sedley's house already, on the pretence of seeing George, of
course, and George wasn't there, only poor little Amelia, with
rather a sad wistful face, seated near the drawing-room window, who,
after some very trifling stupid talk, ventured to ask, was there any
truth in the report that the regiment was soon to be ordered abroad;
and had Captain Dobbin seen Mr. Osborne that day?

The regiment was not ordered abroad as yet; and Captain Dobbin had
not seen George. "He was with his sister, most likely," the Captain
said. "Should he go and fetch the truant?" So she gave him her
hand kindly and gratefully: and he crossed the square; and she
waited and waited, but George never came.

Poor little tender heart! and so it goes on hoping and beating, and
longing and trusting. You see it is not much of a life to describe.
There is not much of what you call incident in it. Only one feeling
all day—when will he come? only one thought to sleep and wake upon.
I believe George was playing billiards with Captain Cannon in
Swallow Street at the time when Amelia was asking Captain Dobbin
about him; for George was a jolly sociable fellow, and excellent in
all games of skill.

Once, after three days of absence, Miss Amelia put on her bonnet,
and actually invaded the Osborne house. "What! leave our brother to
come to us?" said the young ladies. "Have you had a quarrel,
Amelia? Do tell us!" No, indeed, there had been no quarrel. "Who
could quarrel with him?" says she, with her eyes filled with tears.
She only came over to—to see her dear friends; they had not met for
so long. And this day she was so perfectly stupid and awkward, that
the Misses Osborne and their governess, who stared after her as she
went sadly away, wondered more than ever what George could see in
poor little Amelia.

Of course they did. How was she to bare that timid little heart for
the inspection of those young ladies with their bold black eyes? It
was best that it should shrink and hide itself. I know the Misses
Osborne were excellent critics of a Cashmere shawl, or a pink satin
slip; and when Miss Turner had hers dyed purple, and made into a
spencer; and when Miss Pickford had her ermine tippet twisted into a
muff and trimmings, I warrant you the changes did not escape the two
intelligent young women before mentioned. But there are things,
look you, of a finer texture than fur or satin, and all Solomon's
glories, and all the wardrobe of the Queen of Sheba—things whereof
the beauty escapes the eyes of many connoisseurs. And there are
sweet modest little souls on which you light, fragrant and blooming
tenderly in quiet shady places; and there are garden-ornaments, as
big as brass warming-pans, that are fit to stare the sun itself out
of countenance. Miss Sedley was not of the sunflower sort; and I
say it is out of the rules of all proportion to draw a violet of the
size of a double dahlia.

No, indeed; the life of a good young girl who is in the paternal
nest as yet, can't have many of those thrilling incidents to which
the heroine of romance commonly lays claim. Snares or shot may take
off the old birds foraging without—hawks may be abroad, from which
they escape or by whom they suffer; but the young ones in the nest
have a pretty comfortable unromantic sort of existence in the down
and the straw, till it comes to their turn, too, to get on the wing.
While Becky Sharp was on her own wing in the country, hopping on all
sorts of twigs, and amid a multiplicity of traps, and pecking up her
food quite harmless and successful, Amelia lay snug in her home of
Russell Square; if she went into the world, it was under the
guidance of the elders; nor did it seem that any evil could befall
her or that opulent cheery comfortable home in which she was
affectionately sheltered. Mamma had her morning duties, and her
daily drive, and the delightful round of visits and shopping which
forms the amusement, or the profession as you may call it, of the
rich London lady. Papa conducted his mysterious operations in the
City—a stirring place in those days, when war was raging all over
Europe, and empires were being staked; when the "Courier" newspaper
had tens of thousands of subscribers; when one day brought you a
battle of Vittoria, another a burning of Moscow, or a newsman's horn
blowing down Russell Square about dinner-time, announced such a fact
as—"Battle of Leipsic—six hundred thousand men engaged—total
defeat of the French—two hundred thousand killed." Old Sedley once
or twice came home with a very grave face; and no wonder, when such
news as this was agitating all the hearts and all the Stocks of
Europe.

Meanwhile matters went on in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, just as if
matters in Europe were not in the least disorganised. The retreat
from Leipsic made no difference in the number of meals Mr. Sambo
took in the servants' hall; the allies poured into France, and the
dinner-bell rang at five o'clock just as usual. I don't think poor
Amelia cared anything about Brienne and Montmirail, or was fairly
interested in the war until the abdication of the Emperor; when she
clapped her hands and said prayers—oh, how grateful! and flung
herself into George Osborne's arms with all her soul, to the
astonishment of everybody who witnessed that ebullition of
sentiment. The fact is, peace was declared, Europe was going to be
at rest; the Corsican was overthrown, and Lieutenant Osborne's
regiment would not be ordered on service. That was the way in which
Miss Amelia reasoned. The fate of Europe was Lieutenant George
Osborne to her. His dangers being over, she sang Te Deum. He was
her Europe: her emperor: her allied monarchs and august prince
regent. He was her sun and moon; and I believe she thought the
grand illumination and ball at the Mansion House, given to the
sovereigns, were especially in honour of George Osborne.

We have talked of shift, self, and poverty, as those dismal
instructors under whom poor Miss Becky Sharp got her education.
Now, love was Miss Amelia Sedley's last tutoress, and it was amazing
what progress our young lady made under that popular teacher. In
the course of fifteen or eighteen months' daily and constant
attention to this eminent finishing governess, what a deal of
secrets Amelia learned, which Miss Wirt and the black-eyed young
ladies over the way, which old Miss Pinkerton of Chiswick herself,
had no cognizance of! As, indeed, how should any of those prim and
reputable virgins? With Misses P. and W. the tender passion is out
of the question: I would not dare to breathe such an idea regarding
them. Miss Maria Osborne, it is true, was "attached" to Mr.
Frederick Augustus Bullock, of the firm of Hulker, Bullock &
Bullock; but hers was a most respectable attachment, and she would
have taken Bullock Senior just the same, her mind being fixed—as
that of a well-bred young woman should be—upon a house in Park
Lane, a country house at Wimbledon, a handsome chariot, and two
prodigious tall horses and footmen, and a fourth of the annual
profits of the eminent firm of Hulker & Bullock, all of which
advantages were represented in the person of Frederick Augustus.
Had orange blossoms been invented then (those touching emblems of
female purity imported by us from France, where people's daughters
are universally sold in marriage), Miss Maria, I say, would have
assumed the spotless wreath, and stepped into the travelling
carriage by the side of gouty, old, bald-headed, bottle-nosed
Bullock Senior; and devoted her beautiful existence to his happiness
with perfect modesty—only the old gentleman was married already; so
she bestowed her young affections on the junior partner. Sweet,
blooming, orange flowers! The other day I saw Miss Trotter (that
was), arrayed in them, trip into the travelling carriage at St.
George's, Hanover Square, and Lord Methuselah hobbled in after.
With what an engaging modesty she pulled down the blinds of the
chariot—the dear innocent! There were half the carriages of Vanity
Fair at the wedding.

This was not the sort of love that finished Amelia's education; and
in the course of a year turned a good young girl into a good young
woman—to be a good wife presently, when the happy time should come.
This young person (perhaps it was very imprudent in her parents to
encourage her, and abet her in such idolatry and silly romantic
ideas) loved, with all her heart, the young officer in His Majesty's
service with whom we have made a brief acquaintance. She thought
about him the very first moment on waking; and his was the very last
name mentioned in her prayers. She never had seen a man so beautiful
or so clever: such a figure on horseback: such a dancer: such a hero
in general. Talk of the Prince's bow! what was it to George's? She
had seen Mr. Brummell, whom everybody praised so. Compare such a
person as that to her George! Not amongst all the beaux at the Opera
(and there were beaux in those days with actual opera hats) was
there any one to equal him. He was only good enough to be a fairy
prince; and oh, what magnanimity to stoop to such a humble
Cinderella! Miss Pinkerton would have tried to check this blind
devotion very likely, had she been Amelia's confidante; but not with
much success, depend upon it. It is in the nature and instinct of
some women. Some are made to scheme, and some to love; and I wish
any respected bachelor that reads this may take the sort that best
likes him.

While under this overpowering impression, Miss Amelia neglected her
twelve dear friends at Chiswick most cruelly, as such selfish people
commonly will do. She had but this subject, of course, to think
about; and Miss Saltire was too cold for a confidante, and she
couldn't bring her mind to tell Miss Swartz, the woolly-haired young
heiress from St. Kitt's. She had little Laura Martin home for the
holidays; and my belief is, she made a confidante of her, and
promised that Laura should come and live with her when she was
married, and gave Laura a great deal of information regarding the
passion of love, which must have been singularly useful and novel to
that little person. Alas, alas! I fear poor Emmy had not a well-
regulated mind.

What were her parents doing, not to keep this little heart from
beating so fast? Old Sedley did not seem much to notice matters.
He was graver of late, and his City affairs absorbed him. Mrs.
Sedley was of so easy and uninquisitive a nature that she wasn't
even jealous. Mr. Jos was away, being besieged by an Irish widow at
Cheltenham. Amelia had the house to herself—ah! too much to
herself sometimes—not that she ever doubted; for, to be sure,
George must be at the Horse Guards; and he can't always get leave
from Chatham; and he must see his friends and sisters, and mingle in
society when in town (he, such an ornament to every society!); and
when he is with the regiment, he is too tired to write long letters.
I know where she kept that packet she had—and can steal in and out
of her chamber like Iachimo—like Iachimo? No—that is a bad part.
I will only act Moonshine, and peep harmless into the bed where
faith and beauty and innocence lie dreaming.

But if Osborne's were short and soldierlike letters, it must be
confessed, that were Miss Sedley's letters to Mr. Osborne to be
published, we should have to extend this novel to such a
multiplicity of volumes as not the most sentimental reader could
support; that she not only filled sheets of large paper, but crossed
them with the most astonishing perverseness; that she wrote whole
pages out of poetry-books without the least pity; that she
underlined words and passages with quite a frantic emphasis; and, in
fine, gave the usual tokens of her condition. She wasn't a heroine.
Her letters were full of repetition. She wrote rather doubtful
grammar sometimes, and in her verses took all sorts of liberties
with the metre. But oh, mesdames, if you are not allowed to touch
the heart sometimes in spite of syntax, and are not to be loved
until you all know the difference between trimeter and tetrameter,
may all Poetry go to the deuce, and every schoolmaster perish
miserably!

Sentimental and Otherwise

I fear the gentleman to whom Miss Amelia's letters were addressed
was rather an obdurate critic. Such a number of notes followed
Lieutenant Osborne about the country, that he became almost ashamed
of the jokes of his mess-room companions regarding them, and ordered
his servant never to deliver them except at his private apartment.
He was seen lighting his cigar with one, to the horror of Captain
Dobbin, who, it is my belief, would have given a bank-note for the
document.

For some time George strove to keep the liaison a secret. There was
a woman in the case, that he admitted. "And not the first either,"
said Ensign Spooney to Ensign Stubble. "That Osborne's a devil of a
fellow. There was a judge's daughter at Demerara went almost mad
about him; then there was that beautiful quadroon girl, Miss Pye, at
St. Vincent's, you know; and since he's been home, they say he's a
regular Don Giovanni, by Jove."

Stubble and Spooney thought that to be a "regular Don Giovanni, by
Jove" was one of the finest qualities a man could possess, and
Osborne's reputation was prodigious amongst the young men of the
regiment. He was famous in field-sports, famous at a song, famous
on parade; free with his money, which was bountifully supplied by
his father. His coats were better made than any man's in the
regiment, and he had more of them. He was adored by the men. He
could drink more than any officer of the whole mess, including old
Heavytop, the colonel. He could spar better than Knuckles, the
private (who would have been a corporal but for his drunkenness, and
who had been in the prize-ring); and was the best batter and bowler,
out and out, of the regimental club. He rode his own horse, Greased
Lightning, and won the Garrison cup at Quebec races. There were
other people besides Amelia who worshipped him. Stubble and Spooney
thought him a sort of Apollo; Dobbin took him to be an Admirable
Crichton; and Mrs. Major O'Dowd acknowledged he was an elegant young
fellow, and put her in mind of Fitzjurld Fogarty, Lord
Castlefogarty's second son.