--so long as you choose to HONOUR 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.
"Go on about what, sir? about the way in which we've
treated that angel of a girl? Who told me to love her? It
was your doing. I might have chosen elsewhere, and
looked higher, perhaps, than your society: but I obeyed
you. And now that her heart's mine you give me orders
to fling it away, 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 amongst whom she lived,
that she might have excited envy, only she was so good
and gentle, that it's a wonder anybody dared to hate her.
If I desert her, sir, do you suppose she forgets me?"
"I ain't going to have any of this dam 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 colour, sir. Ask the
black that sweeps opposite Fleet Market, sir. I'm not
going to marry a Hottentot Venus."
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.
"I've done it," said George, coming into the Slaughters'
an hour afterwards, looking very pale.
"What, my boy?" says Dobbin.
George told what had passed between his father and
himself.
"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 communication passed between father and
son for some days. The former was sulky at this silence,
but not disquieted; for, as he said, he knew where he
could put the screw upon George, and only waited the
result of that operation. He told the sisters the upshot of
the dispute between them, but ordered them 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 Slaughters' regarding him, where it was said
that he and his friend Captain Dobbin had left town.
One gusty, raw day at the end of April--the rain whipping
the pavement of that ancient street where the old
Slaughters' Coffee-house 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-grey trousers, 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 stone: 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 practised those desperate
attempts at amusement, which men are accustomed to
employ when very anxious, and expectant, and perturbed
in mind.
Some of his comrades, gentlemen who used the room,
joked him about the splendour of his costume and his
agitation of manner. One asked him if he was going to be
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 curacao. 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."
"So do I," William responded. "I was a deuced deal
more nervous than you were that morning. You made a
famous breakfast, 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
cayenne-pepper 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 neighbourhood; 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 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 as they followed George and William into
the church, that it was a "reg'lar shabby turn
hout; and with scarce so much as a breakfast or a
wedding faviour."
"Here you are," said our old friend, Jos Sedley, coming
forward. "You're five minutes late, George, my boy.
What a day, eh? Demmy, it's like the commencement of
the rainy season in Bengal. But you'll find my carriage
is watertight. Come along, my mother and Emmy are in the
vestry."
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 picture
used to shave himself; and on his light green coat
there bloomed a fine wedding favour, like a great white
spreading magnolia.
In a word, George had thrown the great cast. He was
going to be married. Hence his pallor and nervousness--
his sleepless night and agitation in the morning. I have
heard people who have gone through the same thing
own to the same emotion. After three or four ceremonies,
you get accustomed to it, no doubt; but the first
dip, everybody allows, is awful.
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
veil 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 Sedley would not be present. Jos acted for his father,
giving away the bride, whilst Captain Dobbin stepped up
as groomsman 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.
Sedley in the pew. The parson's tones echoed sadly
through the empty walls. Osborne's "I will" was sounded
in very deep bass. Emmy's response came fluttering up
to her lips from her heart, but was scarcely heard by
anybody 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--George's look of gloom had gone, and
he seemed quite proud and radiant. "It's 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 postilions' favours 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 of spectators jeered him.
He was not thinking about them or their laughter.
"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 reverie 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 amongst 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.
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 traveller.
Sometimes it is towards 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 towards the bow windows that
he turns, and that swarm of human life which they
exhibit. From one issue the notes of a piano, which a young
lady in ringlets practises six hours daily, to the delight
of the fellow-lodgers: at another, lovely Polly, the nurse-
maid, may be seen dandling Master Omnium in her arms:
