Square.
As George walked down Southampton Row, from Holborn, he laughed as he saw, at the Sedley mansion, in two different storeys, two heads on the look-out.
The fact is, Miss Amelia, in the drawing-room balcony, was looking very eagerly towards the opposite side of the Square, where Mr. Osborne dwelt, on the watch for the lieutenant himself; and Miss Sharp, from her little bedroom on the second floor, was in observation until Mr. Joseph’s great form should heave in sight.
“Sister Anne is on the watch-tower,” said he to Amelia, “but there’s nobody coming”; and laughing and enjoying the joke hugely, he described in the most ludicrous terms to Miss Sedley, the dismal condition of her brother.
“I think it’s very cruel of you to laugh, George,” she said, looking particularly unhappy; but George only laughed the more at her piteous and discomfited mien, persisted in thinking the joke a most diverting one, and when Miss Sharp came downstairs, bantered her with a great deal of liveliness upon the effect of her charms on the fat civilian.
“O Miss Sharp! if you could but see him this morning,” he said—“moaning in his flowered dressing-gown—writhing on his sofa; if you could but have seen him lolling out his tongue to Gollop the apothecary.”
“See whom?” said Miss Sharp.
“Whom? O whom? Captain Dobbin, of course, to whom we were all so attentive, by the way, last night.”
“We were very unkind to him,” Emmy said, blushing very much. “I—I quite forgot him.”
“Of course you did,” cried Osborne, still on the laugh. “One can’t be always thinking about Dobbin, you know, Amelia. Can one, Miss Sharp?”
“Except when he overset the glass of wine at dinner,” Miss Sharp said, with a haughty air and a toss of the head, “I never gave the existence of Captain Dobbin one single moment’s consideration.”
“Very good, Miss Sharp, I’ll tell him,” Osborne said; and as he spoke Miss Sharp began to have a feeling of distrust and hatred towards this young officer, which he was quite unconscious of having inspired. “He is to make fun of me, is he?” thought Rebecca. “Has he been laughing about me to Joseph? Has he frightened him? Perhaps he won’t come.” A film passed over her eyes, and her heart beat quite quick.
“You’re always joking,” said she, smiling as innocently as she could. “Joke away, Mr. George; there’s nobody to defend me.” And George Osborne, as she walked away—and Amelia looked reprovingly at him—felt some little manly compunction for having inflicted any unnecessary unkindness upon this helpless creature. “My dearest Amelia,” said he, “you are too good—too kind. You don’t know the world. I do. And your little friend Miss Sharp must learn her station.”
“Don’t you think Jos will—”
“Upon my word, my dear, I don’t know. He may, or may not. I’m not his master. I only know he is a very foolish vain fellow, and put my dear little girl into a very painful and awkward position last night. My dearest diddle-diddle-darling!” He was off laughing again; and he did it so drolly that Emmy laughed too.
All that day Jos never came. But Amelia had no fear about this; for the little schemer had actually sent away the page, Mr. Sambo’s aide-de-camp, to Mr. Joseph’s lodgings, to ask for some book he had promised, and how he was; and the reply through Jos’s man, Mr. Brush, was, that his master was ill in bed, and had just had the doctor with him. He must come to-morrow, she thought, but she never had the courage to speak a word on the subject to Rebecca; nor did that young woman herself allude to it in any way during the whole evening after the night at Vauxhall.
The next day, however, as the two young ladies sate on the sofa, pretending to work, or to write letters, or to read novels, Sambo came into the room with his usual engaging grin, with a packet under his arm, and a note on a tray. “Note from Mr. Jos, Miss,” says Sambo.
How Amelia trembled as she opened it!
So it ran—
“Dear Amelia,—I send you the Orphan of the Forest. I was too ill to come yesterday. I leave town to-day for Cheltenham. Pray excuse me, if you can, to the amiable Miss Sharp, for my conduct at Vauxhall, and entreat her to pardon and forget every word I may have uttered when excited by that fatal supper. As soon as I have recovered, for my health is very much shaken, I shall go to Scotland for some months, and am
“Truly yours,
“Jos. Sedley”
It was the death-warrant. All was over. Amelia did not dare to look at Rebecca’s pale face and burning eyes, but she dropt the letter into her friend’s lap; and got up, and went upstairs to her room, and cried her little heart out.
Blenkinsop, the housekeeper, there sought her presently with consolation, on whose shoulder Amelia wept confidentially, and relieved herself a good deal. “Don’t take on, Miss. I didn’t like to tell you. But none of us in the house have liked her except at fust. I sor her with my own eyes reading your Ma’s letters. Pinner says she’s always about your trinket-box and drawers, and everybody’s drawers, and she’s sure she’s put your white ribbing into her box.”
“I gave it her, I gave it her,” Amelia said.
But this did not alter Mrs. Blenkinsop’s opinion of Miss Sharp. “I don’t trust them governesses, Pinner,” she remarked to the maid. “They give themselves the hairs and hupstarts of ladies, and their wages is no better than you nor me.”
It now became clear to every soul in the house, except poor Amelia, that Rebecca should take her departure, and high and low (always with the one exception) agreed that that event should take place as speedily as possible. Our good child ransacked all her drawers, cupboards, reticules, and gimcrack boxes—passed in review all her gowns, fichus, tags, bobbins, laces, silk stockings, and fallals—selecting this thing and that and the other, to make a little heap for Rebecca. And going to her Papa, that generous British merchant, who had promised to give her as many guineas as she was years old—she begged the old gentleman to give the money to dear Rebecca, who must want it, while she lacked for nothing.
She even made George Osborne contribute, and nothing loth (for he was as free-handed a young fellow as any in the army), he went to Bond Street, and bought the best hat and spencer that money could buy.
“That’s George’s present to you, Rebecca, dear,” said Amelia, quite proud of the bandbox conveying these gifts. “What a taste he has! There’s nobody like him.”
“Nobody,” Rebecca answered. “How thankful I am to him!” She was thinking in her heart, “It was George Osborne who prevented my marriage.”—And she loved George Osborne accordingly.
She made her preparations for departure with great equanimity; and accepted all the kind little Amelia’s presents, after just the proper degree of hesitation and reluctance. She vowed eternal gratitude to Mrs. Sedley, of course; but did not intrude herself upon that good lady too much, who was embarrassed, and evidently wishing to avoid her. She kissed Mr. Sedley’s hand, when he presented her with the purse; and asked permission to consider him for the future as her kind, kind friend and protector. Her behaviour was so affecting that he was going to write her a cheque for twenty pounds more; but he restrained his feelings: the carriage was in waiting to take him to dinner, so he tripped away with a “God bless you, my dear; always come here when you come to town, you know.—Drive to the Mansion
