8

“Generosity be hanged!” Sir Pitt roared out. “Who is it to, then, you’re married? Where was it?”

“Let me come back with you to the country, sir! Let me watch over you as faithfully as ever! Don’t, don’t separate me from dear Queen’s Crawley!”

“The feller has left you, has he?” the Baronet said, beginning, as he fancied, to comprehend. “Well, Becky – come back if you like.

“Oh, sir! it would be the pride of my life to go back to Queen’s Crawley, and take care of the children, and of you as formerly, when you said you were pleased with the services of your little Rebecca. I can’t be your wife, sir; let me – let me be your daughter.” Saying which, Rebecca went down on HER knees in a most tragical way.

Miss Crawley was astonished by Becky’s rejection of Sir Pitt. “Nonsense, my dear, you would never have refused him had there not been someone else in the case,” Miss Crawley said, coming to her point at once. “Tell me the private reasons. There is someone; who is it that has touched your heart?”

Rebecca cast down her eyes. “You have guessed right, dear lady,” she said.

“My poor dear child,” cried Miss Crawley, who was always quite ready to be sentimental, “Tell me all, and let me console you.”

“I wish you could, dear Madam,” Rebecca said in the same tearful tone. And she laid her head upon Miss Crawley’s shoulder and wept there so naturally that the old lady, surprised into sympathy, embraced her with an almost maternal kindness. Rebecca wrote a letter later that day promising to her recipient that she would make the Old Miss Crawley adopt her and provide them a happy life and inheritance.

And the person who used to fetch these letters was indeed no other than Captain Rawdon Crawley.

9

When, then, Becky told the Captain, that the great crisis was near, and the time for action had arrived, Rawdon expressed himself as ready to act under her orders. They rented a flat not far from Miss Crawley. And soon came the day when Rebecca eloped leaving a letter in which she heartedly explained the truth. Old Miss Crawley and Sir Pitt were infuriated to learn that the happy husband was their Rawdon.

The old aunt was long in “coming-to.” A month had elapsed. Rawdon was denied the door, his letters were sent back unopened. Miss Crawley never stirred.

Still Rebecca was in a good mood buying things for her home and being a good wife to her captain. One day they went to an auction at a rather familiar house looking for a piano. The sale was at the old house in Russell Square, where we passed some evenings together at the beginning of this story.

Good old John Sedley was a ruined man. His name had been proclaimed as a defaulter on the Stock Exchange, and his bankruptcy and commercial extermination followed. They had to leave their house and move to a modest one. Amelia was severely unhappy. When the great crash came – the announcement of ruin, and the departure from Russell Square, and the declaration that all was over between her and George – all over between her and love, her and happiness, her and faith in the world, Amelia took the news with great sadness and patience. To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then, she thought, I shall always be able to follow him.

Captain Dobbin couldn’t stay away from her troubles. He bought a piano at the auction and brought it to Amelia. He spoke to her and comforted her. Dobbin assured Amelia that the piano was the farewell present from Osborne.

Three days afterwards, Dobbin found Osborne in his room at the barracks.

“She – she’s sent me back some things I gave her. Look here!” There was a little packet directed in the well-known hand to Captain George Osborne, and some things lying about – a ring, a silver knife he had bought, as a boy, for her at a fair; a gold chain, and a locket with hair in it.

“It’s all over,” said he, with a groan of sickening remorse. “Look, Will, you may read it if you like.”

There was a little letter of a few lines, to which he pointed, which said:

My papa has ordered me to return to you these presents, which you made in happier days to me; and I am to write to you for the last time. Farewell. I pray God to strengthen me to bear this, and to bless you always. A. I shall often play upon the piano – your piano. It was like you to send it.

Dobbin was very soft-hearted. The idea of Amelia broken-hearted and lonely tore that good-natured soul. And he broke out into an emotion. He swore that Amelia was an angel.

“Where are they?” Osborne asked, after a long talk, and a long pause.

Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano; but had written a note to Mrs. Sedley, and asked permission to come and see her. When Osborne heard that his friend had found her, he made hot and anxious inquiries regarding the poor child. How was she? How did she look? What did she say? His comrade took his hand, and looked him in the face.

“George, she’s dying,” William Dobbin said – and could speak no more.

Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne, the servant-maid came into Amelia’s room.

“Miss Emmy,” said the girl.

“I’m coming,” Emmy said, not looking round.

“There’s a message,” the maid went on. “There’s something – somebody – sure, here’s a new letter for you – don’t be reading them old ones anymore.” And she gave her a letter, which Emmy took, and read.

“I must see you,” the letter said. “Dearest Emmy – dearest love – dearest wife, come to me.”

George and her mother were outside, waiting.

* * *

When Captain Dobbin came back in the afternoon to these people – which he did with a great deal of sympathy for them – it did his heart good to see how Amelia had grown young again – how she laughed, and chirped, and sang familiar old songs at the piano, which were only interrupted by the bell from without proclaiming Mr. Sedley’s return from the City, before whom George received a signal to retreat.

Beyond the first smile of recognition Miss Sedley did not once notice Dobbin during his visit. But he was content, so that he saw her happy; and thankful to have been the means of making her so. Without knowing how, Captain William Dobbin found himself the great promoter, arranger, and manager of the match between George Osborne and Amelia. But for him it never would have taken place: he could not but confess as much to himself, and smiled rather bitterly as he thought that he of all men in the world should be the person upon whom the care of this marriage had fallen. He confirmed her father to give his consent to the marriage, he checked on Osborne and his affairs. He was content, so that he saw her happy; and thankful to have been the means of making her so.

10

While George Osborne’s good feelings, and his good friend and genius, Dobbin, were carrying back the truant to Amelia’s feet, George’s parent and sisters were arranging the splendid match for him, which they never dreamed he would resist: Miss Schwarz and her great fortune. Old Osborne thought she would be a great match, too, for his son. He should leave the army; he should go into Parliament; he should cut a figure in the fashion and in the state. This imperative hint disturbed George a good deal. He was in the very first enthusiasm and delight of his second courtship of Amelia, which was inexpressibly sweet to him.

Miss Schwarz did her best to appear in Russel Square. Whenever there was a chance of meeting George, that simple and good-natured young woman was quite in a hurry to see her dear Misses Osborne.

The day after George had his hint from his father, and a short time before the hour of dinner, he was in the drawing-room in a very becoming and perfectly natural attitude of melancholy. He came home to find his sisters there, and honest Swartz in her favourite amber-coloured satin.

The sisters began to play the piano. “Stop that thing,” George howled out in a fury from the sofa. “It makes me mad. You play us something, Miss Swartz, do. Sing something.”

“I can sing ‘Fluvy du Tajy,’” Swartz said, in a meek voice, “if I had the words.”

“O, ‘Fleuve du Tage,’” Miss Maria cried; “we have the song,” and went off to fetch the book in which it was.

Now it happened that this song, then in the height of the fashion, had been given to the young ladies by a young friend of theirs, whose name was on the title, and Miss Swartz saw “Amelia Sedley” written in the corner.

“Lord!” cried Miss Swartz, “is it my Amelia? Amelia that was at Miss P.’s at Hammersmith? I know it is. It’s her. Tell me about her – where is she?”

“Don’t mention her,” Miss Maria Osborne said hastily. “Her family has disgraced itself. She is never to be mentioned HERE.”

“Are you a friend of Amelia’s?” George said, bouncing up. “God bless you for it, Miss Swartz. Don’t believe what the girls say. SHE’S not to blame at any rate. She’s the best – ”

“You know you’re not to speak about her, George,” cried Jane. “Papa forbids it.”

“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, my 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 everybody who befriends her. I say,” George said fiercely, “I thank everybody who loves Amelia Sed – ” He stopped.

Old Osborne was in the room with a face livid with rage, and eyes like hot coals.

“Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we’ve been engaged almost all our lives,” Osborne said to poor Miss Schwarz.

After dinner with a purple choking face, old Osborne then began. “How dare you, sir, mention that person’s name before Miss Swartz today, in my drawing-room? I ask you, sir, how dare you do it?”

“I’m a gentleman though I AM your son, sir,” George answered haughtily.

“I ain’t going to have any of this dam sentimental nonsense, sir,” the father cried out. “There shall be no beggar-marriages in my family. If you choose to fling away eight thousand a year, 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 woman? Never, Sir.”

Mr. Osborne pulled at the cord and almost black in the face, ordered to call a coach for Captain Osborne.

“I’ve done it,” said George, 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.”

And so he did. There was nobody in the church besides the officiating persons and the small marriage party and their attendants. The rain came rattling down on the windows. In the intervals of the service you heard it, and the sobbing of old Mrs. Sedley. 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.