Vanity Fair (36 page)

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: whilst 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
seawards, 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 three promenaders remarked to the other;
"Gad, Crawley, did you see what a wink she gave me as I passed?"

"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 death-glances 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 mustachios.

"No, dammy; no, Captain," Jos replied, rather alarmed. "No
billiards to-day, Crawley, my boy; yesterday was enough."

"You play very well," said Crawley, laughing. "Don't he, Osborne?
How well he made that-five stroke, eh?"

"Famous," Osborne said. "Jos is a devil of a fellow at billiards,
and at everything else, too. I wish there were any tiger-hunting
about here! we might go and kill a few before dinner. (There goes a
fine girl! what an ankle, 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.

"Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton's," and 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 towards the coach-office to witness the Lightning's
arrival.

As they passed, they met the carriage—Jos Sedley's open carriage,
with its magnificent armorial bearings—that splendid conveyance in
which he used to drive, about at Cheltonham, 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."

"Don't be leading our husbands into mischief, Mr. Sedley, you
wicked, wicked man you," Rebecca said, shaking at Jos a pretty
little finger covered with the neatest French kid glove. "No
billiards, no smoking, no naughtiness!"

"My dear Mrs. Crawley—Ah now! upon my honour!" 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 upwards 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.