Vanity Fair. Уильям Мейкпис Теккерей

Hark to the wind upon the hill!

      It was the sentiment of the before-mentioned words, “When I’m gone,” over again. As she came to the last words, Miss Sharp’s deep-toned voice faltered. Everybody felt the allusion to her departure, and to her hapless orphan state. Joseph Sedley, who was fond of music, and soft-hearted, was in a state of ravishment during the performance of the song, and profoundly touched at its conclusion. If he had had the courage; if George and Miss Sedley had remained, according to the former’s proposal, in the farther room, Joseph Sedley’s bachelorhood would have been at an end, and this work would never have been written. But at the close of the ditty, Rebecca quitted the piano, and giving her hand to Amelia, walked away into the front drawing-room twilight; at this moment, Mr. Sambo made his appearance with a tray containing sandwiches, jellies, and some glittering glasses and decanters, on which Joseph Sedley’s attention was immediately fixed. When the parents of the house of Sedley returned from their dinner-party, they found the young people so busy in talking, that they had not heard the arrival of the carriage, and Mr. Joseph was in the act of saying, “My dear Miss Sharp, one little teaspoonful of jelly to recruit you after your immense—your—your delightful exertions.”

      “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 distinguée 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 upstairs 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 neck cloth. 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 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.)

      “Oh 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 tête-à-tête 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.”

       CHAPTER 5 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—almost 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 and 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. Sugar 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