ly round on the music-stool," is it my Ame- | drank much. He floundered in his conlia? Amelia that was at Miss P.'s at Ham- versation with the ladies, his neighbors; mersmith? I know it is. It's her, and tell me about her-where is she?" "Who's to prevent me?" George cried out. "I will speak of her. I say she's the best, the kindest, the gentlest, the sweetest girl in England; and that, bankrupt or no, iny sisters are not fit to hold candles to her. If you like her, go and see her, Miss Swartz; she wants friends now; and I say, God bless every body who befriends her. Any body who speaks kindly of her is my friend; any body who speaks against her is my enemy. Thank you, Miss Swartz;" and he went up and wrung her hand. 66 George! George!" one of the sisters cried imploringly. "I say," George said fiercely, "I thank every body who loves Amelia Sed-" He stopped. Old Osborne was in the room with a face livid with rage, and eyes like hot coals. Though George had stopped in his sentence, yet, his blood being up, he was not to be cowed by all the generations of Osborne; rallying instantly, he replied to the bullying look of his father, with another so indicative of resolution and defiance, that the elder man quailed in his turn, and looked away. He felt that the tussle was coming. "Mrs. Haggistoun, let me take you down to dinner," he said. "Give your arm to Miss Swartz, George," and they marched. "Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we've been engaged almost all our lives," Osborne said to his partner; and during all the dinner, George rattled on with a volubility which surprised himself, and made his father doubly nervous, for the fight which was to take place as soon as the ladies were gone. The difference between the pair was, that while the father was violent and a bully, the son had thrice the nerve and courage of the parent, and could not merely make an attack, but resist it; and finding that the moment was now come when the contest between him and his father was to be decided, he took his dinner with perfect coolness and appetite before the engagement began. Old Osborne, on the contrary, was nervous, and George's coolness only rendering him more angry. It made him half mad to see the calm way in which George, flapping his napkin, and with a swaggering bow, opened the door for the ladies to leave the room; and filling himself a glass of wine, smacked it, and looked his father full in the face, as if to say, "Gentleman of the Guard, fire first." The old man also took a supply of ammunition, but his decanter clinked against the glass as he tried to fill it. After giving a great heave, and with a purple, choking face, he then began. "How dare you, sir, mention that person's name before Miss Swartz to-day, in my drawingroom? I ask you, sir, how dare you do it!" "Stop, sir," says George, don't say dare, sir. Dare isn't a word to be used to a captain in the British army." "I shall say what I like to my son, sir. I can cut him off with a shilling, if I like. I can make him a beggar, if I like. I will say what I like," the elder said. "I'm a gentleman, though I am your son, sir," George answered, haughtily. "Any communications which you have to make to me, or any orders which you may please to give, I beg may be couched in that kind of language which I am accustomed to hear." Whenever the lad assumed his haughty manner, it always created either great awe or great irritation in the parent. Old Osborne stood in secret terror of his son as a better gentleman than himself; and perhaps my readers may have remarked in their experience of this Vanity Fair of ours, that there is no character which a low-minded man so much mistrusts, as that of a gentleman. 66 My father didn't give me the education you have had, nor the advantages you have had, nor the money you have had. If I had kept the company some folks have had through my means, perhaps my son wouldn't have any reason to brag, sir, of his superiority and West End airs" (these words were uttered in the elder Osborne's most sarcastic tones). "But it wasn't considered the part of a gentleman, in my time, for a man to insult his father. If I'd done any such thing, mine would have kicked me down stairs, sir." "I never insulted you, sir. I said, I begged you to remember your son was a gentleman as well as yourself. I know very well that you give me plenty of money," said George (fingering a bundle of notes which he had got in the morning from Mr. Chopper). You tell it me often, enough, sir. There's no fear of my forgetting it." "I wish you'd remember other things as well, sir," the sire answered. "I wish you'd remember, that in this house-se iong as you choose to honor it with your company, captain-I'm the master, and that name, and that-that-that you-that-I say—" That what, sir?" George asked, with scarcely a sneer, filling another glass of claret. "!" burst out his father, with a screaming oath-"that the name of those Sedleys never be mentioned here, sir-not one of the whole damned lot of 'em, sir." "It wasn't I, sir, that introduced Miss Sedley's name. It was my sisters who spoke ill of her to Miss Swartz; and, by Jove, I'll defend her wherever I go. Nobody shall speak lightly of that name in my presence. Our family has done her quite enough injury already, I think, and may leave off reviling her, now she's down. I'll shoot any man but you who says a word against her." "Go on, sir, go on," the old gentleman said, his eyes starting out of his head. "I'll marry her to-morrow," he said, with an oath. "I love her more every day, Dobbin." 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 com"Go on about what, sir? About the way munication passed between father and son for in which we've treated that angel of a girl? some days. The former was sulky at this Who told me to love her? It was your silence, but not disquieted; for, as he said, doing. I might have chosen elsewhere, and he knew where he could put the screw uplooked higher, perhaps, than your society: on George, and only waited the result of that but I obeyed you. And now, that her heart's operation. He told the sisters the upshot of mine, you give me orders to fling it away, the dispute between them, but ordered them and punish her, kill her, perhaps for the faults of other people. It's a shame, by Heavens," said George, working himself up into passion and enthusiasm as he proceeded, to play at fast and loose with a young girl's affections—and with such an angel as that one so superior to the people among whom she lived, that she might have excited envy, only she was so good and gentle, that it's a wonder any body dared to hate her. If I desert her, sir, do you suppose she forgets me ?" 64 "I ain't going to have any of this damned sentimental nonsense and humbug here, sir," the father cried out. "There shall be no beggar-marriages in my family. If you choose to fling away eight thousand a year which you may have for the asking, you may do it: but, by Jove, you take your pack and walk out of this house, sir. Will you do as I tell you, once for all, sir, or will you not?" Marry that mulatto woman?" George said, pulling up his shirt-collars. "I don't like the color, sir. Ask the black that sweeps opposite Fleet Market, sir. I'm not going to marry a Hottentot Venus." 66 Mr. Osborne pulled frantically at the cord by which he was accustomed to summon the butler when he wanted wine-and, almost black in the face, ordered that functionary to call a coach for Captain Osborne. 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 Slaughter's regarding him, where it was said that he and his friend Captain Dobbin had left town. One gusty, raw day at the end of Aprilthe rain whipping the pavement of that ancient street where the old Slaughter's coffeehouse 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-gray trowsers, 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 stones: 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 practiced those desperate attempts at amusement, which men are accustomed to employ when George told what had passed between his very anxious, and expectant, and perturbed father and himself. in mind. "I've done it," said George, coming into the Slaughter's an hour afterward, looking very pale. "What, my boy?" says Dobbin. 66 "Here you are," said our old friend, Jos Sedley, coming forward. You're five minutes late, George, my boy. What a day, eh? Demme, it's like the commencement of the rainy season in Bengal. But you'll find my carriage is water-tight. Come along, my mother and Emmy are in the vestry." Some of his comrades, gentlemen who as they followed George and William inte used the room, joked him about the splen- the church, that it was a "reg'lar shabby dor of his costume and his agitation of man- turn hout; and with scarce so much as a ner. One asked him if he was going to be breakfast or a wedding favor." 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 curaçoa. 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." 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 pieture used to shave himself; and on his light green coat there bloomed a fine wedding favor, like a great white, spreading magnolia. In a word, George had thrown the great "So do I," William responded. "I was cast. He was going to be married. Hence a deuced deal more nervous than you were his pallor and nervousness-his sleepless that morning. You made a famous break-night and agitation in the morning. I have fast, 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 cayennepepper 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 neighborhood; 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, 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 After heard people who have gone through the 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 vail 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 Osborne would not be present. Jos acted for his father, giving away the bride, while Captain Dobbin stepped up as groom's-man 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. Osborne in the pew. The parson's tones echoed sadly through the empty walls. Osborne's "I will" was sounded in very deep base. Emmy's response came fluttering up to her lips from her heart, but was scarcely heard by any body 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 | From one issue the notes of a piano, which -George's look of gloom had gone, and he a young lady in ringlets practices six hours seemed quite proud and radiant. "It's daily, to the delight of the fellow-lodgers; 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 postillions' favors 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 at another, lovely Polly, the nursemaid, may be seen dandling Master Omnium in her arms; while 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 seaward, 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 of spectators jeered him. He was not think-three promenaders remarked to the other; ing about them or their laughter. Gad, Crawley, did you see what a wink she gave me as I passed?" "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 review 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 among 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. 66 "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 deathglances 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 mustaches. "No, damme; no, captain," Jos replied, rather alarmed. "No billiards to-day, Crawley, my boy; yesterday was enough." 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 traveler. Sometimes it is toward 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 toward the bow windows that he turns, and that of a fellow at billiards, and at every thing swarm of human life which they exhibit. else, too. I wish there were any tiger "You play very well," said Crawley, laughing. "Don't he, Osborne? How well he made that five stroke, eh?" "Famous," Osborne said. 66 Jos is a devil hunting about here; we might go and kill a few before dinner. (There goes a fine girl! what an ancle, 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. 66 Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's," said 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 toward the coach of fice to witness the Lightning's arrival. 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 here. 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 Os As they passed, they met the carriageJos Sedley's open carriage, with its magnificent armorial bearings-that splendid con-borne could not but take it. By humbly veyance 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." My dear Mrs. Crawley-Ah now! upon my honor!" 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 upward 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 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 neighbors on purpose, and in order to apologize for them in an open and manly way afterward-and what ensued? My friend Crocky Doyle was liked every where, 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 green-grocer's opposite, and we could not get away until Sunday. If aunty does not relent, what shall we do?" |