Vanity Fair (7 page)

"Bravo, Jos!" said Mr. Sedley; on hearing the bantering of which
well-known voice, Jos instantly relapsed into an alarmed silence,
and quickly took his departure. He did not lie awake all night
thinking whether or not he was in love with Miss Sharp; the passion
of love never interfered with the appetite or the slumber of Mr.
Joseph Sedley; but he thought to himself how delightful it would be
to hear such songs as those after Cutcherry—what a distinguee girl
she was—how she could speak French better than the Governor-
General's lady herself—and what a sensation she would make at the
Calcutta balls. "It's evident the poor devil's in love with me,"
thought he. "She is just as rich as most of the girls who come out
to India. I might go farther, and fare worse, egad!" And in these
meditations he fell asleep.

How Miss Sharp lay awake, thinking, will he come or not to-morrow?
need not be told here. To-morrow came, and, as sure as fate, Mr.
Joseph Sedley made his appearance before luncheon. He had never
been known before to confer such an honour on Russell Square.
George Osborne was somehow there already (sadly "putting out"
Amelia, who was writing to her twelve dearest friends at Chiswick
Mall), and Rebecca was employed upon her yesterday's work. As Joe's
buggy drove up, and while, after his usual thundering knock and
pompous bustle at the door, the ex-Collector of Boggley Wollah
laboured up stairs to the drawing-room, knowing glances were
telegraphed between Osborne and Miss Sedley, and the pair, smiling
archly, looked at Rebecca, who actually blushed as she bent her fair
ringlets over her knitting. How her heart beat as Joseph appeared—
Joseph, puffing from the staircase in shining creaking boots—
Joseph, in a new waistcoat, red with heat and nervousness, and
blushing behind his wadded neckcloth. It was a nervous moment for
all; and as for Amelia, I think she was more frightened than even
the people most concerned.

Sambo, who flung open the door and announced Mr. Joseph, followed
grinning, in the Collector's rear, and bearing two handsome nosegays
of flowers, which the monster had actually had the gallantry to
purchase in Covent Garden Market that morning—they were not as big
as the haystacks which ladies carry about with them now-a-days, in
cones of filigree paper; but the young women were delighted with the
gift, as Joseph presented one to each, with an exceedingly solemn
bow.

"Bravo, Jos!" cried Osborne.

"Thank you, dear Joseph," said Amelia, quite ready to kiss her
brother, if he were so minded. (And I think for a kiss from such a
dear creature as Amelia, I would purchase all Mr. Lee's
conservatories out of hand.)

"O heavenly, heavenly flowers!" exclaimed Miss Sharp, and smelt them
delicately, and held them to her bosom, and cast up her eyes to the
ceiling, in an ecstasy of admiration. Perhaps she just looked first
into the bouquet, to see whether there was a billet-doux hidden
among the flowers; but there was no letter.

"Do they talk the language of flowers at Boggley Wollah, Sedley?"
asked Osborne, laughing.

"Pooh, nonsense!" replied the sentimental youth. "Bought 'em at
Nathan's; very glad you like 'em; and eh, Amelia, my dear, I bought
a pine-apple at the same time, which I gave to Sambo. Let's have it
for tiffin; very cool and nice this hot weather." Rebecca said she
had never tasted a pine, and longed beyond everything to taste one.

So the conversation went on. I don't know on what pretext Osborne
left the room, or why, presently, Amelia went away, perhaps to
superintend the slicing of the pine-apple; but Jos was left alone
with Rebecca, who had resumed her work, and the green silk and the
shining needles were quivering rapidly under her white slender
fingers.

"What a beautiful, BYOO-OOTIFUL song that was you sang last night,
dear Miss Sharp," said the Collector. "It made me cry almost; 'pon
my honour it did."

"Because you have a kind heart, Mr. Joseph; all the Sedleys have, I
think."

"It kept me awake last night, and I was trying to hum it this
morning, in bed; I was, upon my honour. Gollop, my doctor, came in
at eleven (for I'm a sad invalid, you know, and see Gollop every
day), and, 'gad! there I was, singing away like—a robin."

"O you droll creature! Do let me hear you sing it."

"Me? No, you, Miss Sharp; my dear Miss Sharp, do sing it." "Not now,
Mr. Sedley," said Rebecca, with a sigh. "My spirits are not equal
to it; besides, I must finish the purse. Will you help me, Mr.
Sedley?" And before he had time to ask how, Mr. Joseph Sedley, of
the East India Company's service, was actually seated tete-a-tete
with a young lady, looking at her with a most killing expression;
his arms stretched out before her in an imploring attitude, and his
hands bound in a web of green silk, which she was unwinding.

In this romantic position Osborne and Amelia found the interesting
pair, when they entered to announce that tiffin was ready. The
skein of silk was just wound round the card; but Mr. Jos had never
spoken.

"I am sure he will to-night, dear," Amelia said, as she pressed
Rebecca's hand; and Sedley, too, had communed with his soul, and
said to himself, "'Gad, I'll pop the question at Vauxhall."

Dobbin of Ours

Cuff's fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected issue of that contest,
will long be remembered by every man who was educated at Dr.
Swishtail's famous school. The latter Youth (who used to be called
Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin, and by many other names indicative
of puerile contempt) was the quietest, the clumsiest, and, as it
seemed, the dullest of all Dr. Swishtail's young gentlemen. His
parent was a grocer in the city: and it was bruited abroad that he
was admitted into Dr. Swishtail's academy upon what are called
"mutual principles"—that is to say, the expenses of his board and
schooling were defrayed by his father in goods, not money; and he
stood there—most at the bottom of the school—in his scraggy
corduroys and jacket, through the seams of which his great big bones
were bursting—as the representative of so many pounds of tea,
candles, sugar, mottled-soap, plums (of which a very mild proportion
was supplied for the puddings of the establishment), and other
commodities. A dreadful day it was for young Dobbin when one of the
youngsters of the school, having run into the town upon a poaching
excursion for hardbake and polonies, espied the cart of Dobbin &
Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, Thames Street, London, at the Doctor's
door, discharging a cargo of the wares in which the firm dealt.

Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were frightful, and
merciless against him. "Hullo, Dobbin," one wag would say, "here's
good news in the paper. Sugars is ris', my boy." Another would set
a sum—"If a pound of mutton-candles cost sevenpence-halfpenny, how
much must Dobbin cost?" and a roar would follow from all the circle
of young knaves, usher and all, who rightly considered that the
selling of goods by retail is a shameful and infamous practice,
meriting the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen.

"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said in private to
the little boy who had brought down the storm upon him. At which
the latter replied haughtily, "My father's a gentleman, and keeps
his carriage"; and Mr. William Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse
in the playground, where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest
sadness and woe. Who amongst us is there that does not recollect
similar hours of bitter, bitter childish grief? Who feels injustice;
who shrinks before a slight; who has a sense of wrong so acute, and
so glowing a gratitude for kindness, as a generous boy? and how many
of those gentle souls do you degrade, estrange, torture, for the
sake of a little loose arithmetic, and miserable dog-latin?

Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the rudiments of
the above language, as they are propounded in that wonderful book
the Eton Latin Grammar, was compelled to remain among the very last
of Doctor Swishtail's scholars, and was "taken down" continually by
little fellows with pink faces and pinafores when he marched up with
the lower form, a giant amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied
look, his dog's-eared primer, and his tight corduroys. High and
low, all made fun of him. They sewed up those corduroys, tight as
they were. They cut his bed-strings. They upset buckets and
benches, so that he might break his shins over them, which he never
failed to do. They sent him parcels, which, when opened, were found
to contain the paternal soap and candles. There was no little
fellow but had his jeer and joke at Dobbin; and he bore everything
quite patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable.

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the
Swishtail Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town-boys.
Ponies used to come for him to ride home on Saturdays. He had his
top-boots in his room, in which he used to hunt in the holidays. He
had a gold repeater: and took snuff like the Doctor. He had been to
the Opera, and knew the merits of the principal actors, preferring
Mr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could knock you off forty Latin verses
in an hour. He could make French poetry. What else didn't he know,
or couldn't he do? They said even the Doctor himself was afraid of
him.

Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects,
and bullied them, with splendid superiority. This one blacked his
shoes: that toasted his bread, others would fag out, and give him
balls at cricket during whole summer afternoons. "Figs" was the
fellow whom he despised most, and with whom, though always abusing
him, and sneering at him, he scarcely ever condescended to hold
personal communication.

One day in private, the two young gentlemen had had a difference.
Figs, alone in the schoolroom, was blundering over a home letter;
when Cuff, entering, bade him go upon some message, of which tarts
were probably the subject.

"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter."

"You CAN'T?" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (in which
many words were scratched out, many were mis-spelt, on which had
been spent I don't know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for
the poor fellow was writing to his mother, who was fond of him,
although she was a grocer's wife, and lived in a back parlour in
Thames Street). "You CAN'T?" says Mr. Cuff: "I should like to know
why, pray? Can't you write to old Mother Figs to-morrow?"

"Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench very nervous.

"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school.

"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman readth
letterth."

"Well, NOW will you go?" says the other.

"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll THMASH you," roars out Dobbin,
springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked, that Mr. Cuff
paused, turned down his coat sleeves again, put his hands into his
pockets, and walked away with a sneer. But he never meddled
personally with the grocer's boy after that; though we must do
him the justice to say he always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt
behind his back.

Some time after this interview, it happened that Mr. Cuff, on a
sunshiny afternoon, was in the neighbourhood of poor William Dobbin,
who was lying under a tree in the playground, spelling over a
favourite copy of the Arabian Nights which he had apart from the
rest of the school, who were pursuing their various sports—quite
lonely, and almost happy. If people would but leave children to
themselves; if teachers would cease to bully them; if parents would
not insist upon directing their thoughts, and dominating their
feelings—those feelings and thoughts which are a mystery to all
(for how much do you and I know of each other, of our children, of
our fathers, of our neighbour, and how far more beautiful and sacred
are the thoughts of the poor lad or girl whom you govern likely to
be, than those of the dull and world-corrupted person who rules
him?)—if, I say, parents and masters would leave their children
alone a little more, small harm would accrue, although a less
quantity of as in praesenti might be acquired.

Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, and was away
with Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley of Diamonds, or with Prince
Ahmed and the Fairy Peribanou in that delightful cavern where the
Prince found her, and whither we should all like to make a tour;
when shrill cries, as of a little fellow weeping, woke up his
pleasant reverie; and looking up, he saw Cuff before him,
belabouring a little boy.

It was the lad who had peached upon him about the grocer's cart; but
he bore little malice, not at least towards the young and small.
"How dare you, sir, break the bottle?" says Cuff to the little
urchin, swinging a yellow cricket-stump over him.

The boy had been instructed to get over the playground wall (at a
selected spot where the broken glass had been removed from the top,
and niches made convenient in the brick); to run a quarter of a
mile; to purchase a pint of rum-shrub on credit; to brave all the
Doctor's outlying spies, and to clamber back into the playground
again; during the performance of which feat, his foot had slipt, and
the bottle was broken, and the shrub had been spilt, and his
pantaloons had been damaged, and he appeared before his employer a
perfectly guilty and trembling, though harmless, wretch.

"How dare you, sir, break it?" says Cuff; "you blundering little
thief. You drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the
bottle. Hold out your hand, sir."

Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the child's hand. A
moan followed. Dobbin looked up. The Fairy Peribanou had fled into
the inmost cavern with Prince Ahmed: the Roc had whisked away
Sindbad the Sailor out of the Valley of Diamonds out of sight, far
into the clouds: and there was everyday life before honest William;
and a big boy beating a little one without cause.