The Major's visit left old John Sedley in a great state of agitationand excitement. His daughter could not induce him to settle down tohis customary occupations or amusements that night. He passed theevening fumbling amongst his boxes and desks, untying his papers withtrembling hands, and sorting and arranging them against Jos's arrival.He had them in the greatest order--his tapes and his files, hisreceipts, and his letters with lawyers and correspondents; thedocuments relative to the wine project (which failed from a mostunaccountable accident, after commencing with the most splendidprospects), the coal project (which only a want of capital preventedfrom becoming the most successful scheme ever put before the public),the patent saw-mills and sawdust consolidation project, &c., &c. Allnight, until a very late hour, he passed in the preparation of thesedocuments, trembling about from one room to another, with a quiveringcandle and shaky hands. Here's the wine papers, here's the sawdust,here's the coals; here's my letters to Calcutta and Madras, and repliesfrom Major Dobbin, C.B., and Mr. Joseph Sedley to the same. "He shallfind no irregularity about ME, Emmy," the old gentleman said.

Emmy smiled. "I don't think Jos will care about seeing those papers,Papa," she said.

"You don't know anything about business, my dear," answered the sire,shaking his head with an important air. And it must be confessed thaton this point Emmy was very ignorant, and that is a pity some peopleare so knowing. All these twopenny documents arranged on a side table,old Sedley covered them carefully over with a clean bandannahandkerchief (one out of Major Dobbin's lot) and enjoined the maid andlandlady of the house, in the most solemn way, not to disturb thosepapers, which were arranged for the arrival of Mr. Joseph Sedley thenext morning, "Mr. Joseph Sedley of the Honourable East India Company'sBengal Civil Service."

Amelia found him up very early the next morning, more eager, morehectic, and more shaky than ever. "I didn't sleep much, Emmy, mydear," he said. "I was thinking of my poor Bessy. I wish she wasalive, to ride in Jos's carriage once again. She kept her own andbecame it very well." And his eyes filled with tears, which trickleddown his furrowed old face. Amelia wiped them away, and smilinglykissed him, and tied the old man's neckcloth in a smart bow, and puthis brooch into his best shirt frill, in which, in his Sunday suit ofmourning, he sat from six o'clock in the morning awaiting the arrivalof his son.

However, when the postman made his appearance, the little party wereput out of suspense by the receipt of a letter from Jos to his sister,who announced that he felt a little fatigued after his voyage, andshould not be able to move on that day, but that he would leaveSouthampton early the next morning and be with his father and mother atevening. Amelia, as she read out the letter to her father, paused overthe latter word; her brother, it was clear, did not know what hadhappened in the family. Nor could he, for the fact is that, though theMajor rightly suspected that his travelling companion never would begot into motion in so short a space as twenty-four hours, and wouldfind some excuse for delaying, yet Dobbin had not written to Jos toinform him of the calamity which had befallen the Sedley family, beingoccupied in talking with Amelia until long after post-hour.

There are some splendid tailors' shops in the High Street ofSouthampton, in the fine plate-glass windows of which hang gorgeouswaistcoats of all sorts, of silk and velvet, and gold and crimson, andpictures of the last new fashions, in which those wonderful gentlemenwith quizzing glasses, and holding on to little boys with the exceedinglarge eyes and curly hair, ogle ladies in riding habits prancing by theStatue of Achilles at Apsley House. Jos, although provided with someof the most splendid vests that Calcutta could furnish, thought hecould not go to town until he was supplied with one or two of thesegarments, and selected a crimson satin, embroidered with goldbutterflies, and a black and red velvet tartan with white stripes and arolling collar, with which, and a rich blue satin stock and a gold pin,consisting of a five-barred gate with a horseman in pink enamel jumpingover it, he thought he might make his entry into London with somedignity. For Jos's former shyness and blundering blushing timidity hadgiven way to a more candid and courageous self-assertion of his worth."I don't care about owning it," Waterloo Sedley would say to hisfriends, "I am a dressy man"; and though rather uneasy if the ladieslooked at him at the Government House balls, and though he blushed andturned away alarmed under their glances, it was chiefly from a dreadlest they should make love to him that he avoided them, being averse tomarriage altogether. But there was no such swell in Calcutta asWaterloo Sedley, I have heard say, and he had the handsomest turn-out,gave the best bachelor dinners, and had the finest plate in the wholeplace.

To make these waistcoats for a man of his size and dignity took atleast a day, part of which he employed in hiring a servant to wait uponhim and his native and in instructing the agent who cleared hisbaggage, his boxes, his books, which he never read, his chests ofmangoes, chutney, and curry-powders, his shawls for presents to peoplewhom he didn't know as yet, and the rest of his Persicos apparatus.

At length, he drove leisurely to London on the third day and in the newwaistcoat, the native, with chattering teeth, shuddering in a shawl onthe box by the side of the new European servant; Jos puffing his pipeat intervals within and looking so majestic that the little boys criedHooray, and many people thought he must be a Governor-General. HE, Ipromise, did not decline the obsequious invitation of the landlords toalight and refresh himself in the neat country towns. Having partakenof a copious breakfast, with fish, and rice, and hard eggs, atSouthampton, he had so far rallied at Winchester as to think a glass ofsherry necessary. At Alton he stepped out of the carriage at hisservant's request and imbibed some of the ale for which the place isfamous. At Farnham he stopped to view the Bishop's Castle and topartake of a light dinner of stewed eels, veal cutlets, and Frenchbeans, with a bottle of claret. He was cold over Bagshot Heath, wherethe native chattered more and more, and Jos Sahib took somebrandy-and-water; in fact, when he drove into town he was as full ofwine, beer, meat, pickles, cherry-brandy, and tobacco as the steward'scabin of a steam-packet. It was evening when his carriage thundered upto the little door in Brompton, whither the affectionate fellow drovefirst, and before hieing to the apartments secured for him by Mr.Dobbin at the Slaughters'.

All the faces in the street were in the windows; the little maidservantflew to the wicket-gate; the Mesdames Clapp looked out from thecasement of the ornamented kitchen; Emmy, in a great flutter, was inthe passage among the hats and coats; and old Sedley in the parlourinside, shaking all over. Jos descended from the post-chaise and downthe creaking swaying steps in awful state, supported by the new valetfrom Southampton and the shuddering native, whose brown face was nowlivid with cold and of the colour of a turkey's gizzard. He created animmense sensation in the passage presently, where Mrs. and Miss Clapp,coming perhaps to listen at the parlour door, found Loll Jewab shakingupon the hall-bench under the coats, moaning in a strange piteous way,and showing his yellow eyeballs and white teeth.

For, you see, we have adroitly shut the door upon the meeting betweenJos and the old father and the poor little gentle sister inside. Theold man was very much affected; so, of course, was his daughter; norwas Jos without feeling. In that long absence of ten years, the mostselfish will think about home and early ties. Distance sanctifies both.Long brooding over those lost pleasures exaggerates their charm andsweetness. Jos was unaffectedly glad to see and shake the hand of hisfather, between whom and himself there had been a coolness--glad to seehis little sister, whom he remembered so pretty and smiling, and painedat the alteration which time, grief, and misfortune had made in theshattered old man. Emmy had come out to the door in her black clothesand whispered to him of her mother's death, and not to speak of it totheir father. There was no need of this caution, for the elder Sedleyhimself began immediately to speak of the event, and prattled about it,and wept over it plenteously. It shocked the Indian not a little andmade him think of himself less than the poor fellow was accustomed todo.

The result of the interview must have been very satisfactory, for whenJos had reascended his post-chaise and had driven away to his hotel,Emmy embraced her father tenderly, appealing to him with an air oftriumph, and asking the old man whether she did not always say that herbrother had a good heart?

Indeed, Joseph Sedley, affected by the humble position in which hefound his relations, and in the expansiveness and overflowing of heartoccasioned by the first meeting, declared that they should never sufferwant or discomfort any more, that he was at home for some time at anyrate, during which his house and everything he had should be theirs:and that Amelia would look very pretty at the head of his table--untilshe would accept one of her own.

She shook her head sadly and had, as usual, recourse to the waterworks.She knew what he meant. She and her young confidante, Miss Mary, hadtalked over the matter most fully, the very night of the Major's visit,beyond which time the impetuous Polly could not refrain from talking ofthe discovery which she had made, and describing the start and tremorof joy by which Major Dobbin betrayed himself when Mr. Binny passedwith his bride and the Major learned that he had no longer a rival tofear. "Didn't you see how he shook all over when you asked if he wasmarried and he said, 'Who told you those lies?' Oh, M'am," Polly said,"he never kept his eyes off you, and I'm sure he's grown grey athinkingof you."

But Amelia, looking up at her bed, over which hung the portraits of herhusband and son, told her young protegee never, never, to speak on thatsubject again; that Major Dobbin had been her husband's dearest friendand her own and George's most kind and affectionate guardian; that sheloved him as a brother--but that a woman who had been married to suchan angel as that, and she pointed to the wall, could never think of anyother union. Poor Polly sighed: she thought what she should do ifyoung Mr. Tomkins, at the surgery, who always looked at her so atchurch, and who, by those mere aggressive glances had put her timorouslittle heart into such a flutter that she was ready to surrender atonce,--what she should do if he were to die? She knew he wasconsumptive, his cheeks were so red and he was so uncommon thin in thewaist.

Not that Emmy, being made aware of the honest Major's passion, rebuffedhim in any way, or felt displeased with him. Such an attachment fromso true and loyal a gentleman could make no woman angry. Desdemona wasnot angry with Cassio, though there is very little doubt she saw theLieutenant's partiality for her (and I for my part believe that manymore things took place in that sad affair than the worthy Moorishofficer ever knew of); why, Miranda was even very kind to Caliban, andwe may be pretty sure for the same reason. Not that she would encouragehim in the least--the poor uncouth monster--of course not. No morewould Emmy by any means encourage her admirer, the Major. She wouldgive him that friendly regard, which so much excellence and fidelitymerited; she would treat him with perfect cordiality and franknessuntil he made his proposals, and THEN it would be time enough for herto speak and to put an end to hopes which never could be realized.

She slept, therefore, very soundly that evening, after the conversationwith Miss Polly, and was more than ordinarily happy, in spite of Jos'sdelaying. "I am glad he is not going to marry that Miss O'Dowd," shethought. "Colonel O'Dowd never could have a sister fit for such anaccomplished man as Major William." Who was there amongst her littlecircle who would make him a good wife? Not Miss Binny, she was too oldand ill-tempered; Miss Osborne? too old too. Little Polly was tooyoung. Mrs. Osborne could not find anybody to suit the Major before shewent to sleep.

The same morning brought Major Dobbin a letter to the Slaughters'Coffee-house from his friend at Southampton, begging dear Dob to excuseJos for being in a rage when awakened the day before (he had aconfounded headache, and was just in his first sleep), and entreatingDob to engage comfortable rooms at the Slaughters' for Mr. Sedley andhis servants. The Major had become necessary to Jos during the voyage.He was attached to him, and hung upon him. The other passengers wereaway to London. Young Ricketts and little Chaffers went away on thecoach that day--Ricketts on the box, and taking the reins from Botley;the Doctor was off to his family at Portsea; Bragg gone to town to hisco-partners; and the first mate busy in the unloading of theRamchunder. Mr. Joe was very lonely at Southampton, and got thelandlord of the George to take a glass of wine with him that day, atthe very hour at which Major Dobbin was seated at the table of hisfather, Sir William, where his sister found out (for it was impossiblefor the Major to tell fibs) that he had been to see Mrs. George Osborne.

Jos was so comfortably situated in St. Martin's Lane, he could enjoyhis hookah there with such perfect ease, and could swagger down to thetheatres, when minded, so agreeably, that, perhaps, he would haveremained altogether at the Slaughters' had not his friend, the Major,been at his elbow. That gentleman would not let the Bengalee restuntil he had executed his promise of having a home for Amelia and hisfather. Jos was a soft fellow in anybody's hands, Dobbin most activein anybody's concerns but his own; the civilian was, therefore, an easyvictim to the guileless arts of this good-natured diplomatist and wasready to do, to purchase, hire, or relinquish whatever his friendthought fit. Loll Jewab, of whom the boys about St. Martin's Laneused to make cruel fun whenever he showed his dusky countenance in thestreet, was sent back to Calcutta in the Lady Kicklebury East Indiaman,in which Sir William Dobbin had a share, having previously taught Jos'sEuropean the art of preparing curries, pilaus, and pipes. It was amatter of great delight and occupation to Jos to superintend thebuilding of a smart chariot which he and the Major ordered in theneighbouring Long Acre: and a pair of handsome horses were jobbed,with which Jos drove about in state in the park, or to call upon hisIndian friends. Amelia was not seldom by his side on these excursions,when also Major Dobbin would be seen in the back seat of the carriage.At other times old Sedley and his daughter took advantage of it, andMiss Clapp, who frequently accompanied her friend, had great pleasurein being recognized as she sat in the carriage, dressed in the famousyellow shawl, by the young gentleman at the surgery, whose face mightcommonly be seen over the window-blinds as she passed.

Shortly after Jos's first appearance at Brompton, a dismal scene,indeed, took place at that humble cottage at which the Sedleys hadpassed the last ten years of their life. Jos's carriage (the temporaryone, not the chariot under construction) arrived one day and carriedoff old Sedley and his daughter--to return no more. The tears thatwere shed by the landlady and the landlady's daughter at that eventwere as genuine tears of sorrow as any that have been outpoured in thecourse of this history. In their long acquaintanceship and intimacythey could not recall a harsh word that had been uttered by Amelia. Shehad been all sweetness and kindness, always thankful, always gentle,even when Mrs. Clapp lost her own temper and pressed for the rent.When the kind creature was going away for good and all, the landladyreproached herself bitterly for ever having used a rough expression toher--how she wept, as they stuck up with wafers on the window, a papernotifying that the little rooms so long occupied were to let! Theynever would have such lodgers again, that was quite clear. After-lifeproved the truth of this melancholy prophecy, and Mrs. Clapp revengedherself for the deterioration of mankind by levying the most savagecontributions upon the tea-caddies and legs of mutton of herlocataires. Most of them scolded and grumbled; some of them did notpay; none of them stayed. The landlady might well regret those old, oldfriends, who had left her.

As for Miss Mary, her sorrow at Amelia's departure was such as I shallnot attempt to depict. From childhood upwards she had been with herdaily and had attached herself so passionately to that dear good ladythat when the grand barouche came to carry her off into splendour, shefainted in the arms of her friend, who was indeed scarcely lessaffected than the good-natured girl. Amelia loved her like a daughter.During eleven years the girl had been her constant friend andassociate. The separation was a very painful one indeed to her. Butit was of course arranged that Mary was to come and stay often at thegrand new house whither Mrs. Osborne was going, and where Mary was sureshe would never be so happy as she had been in their humble cot, asMiss Clapp called it, in the language of the novels which she loved.

Let us hope she was wrong in her judgement. Poor Emmy's days ofhappiness had been very few in that humble cot. A gloomy Fate hadoppressed her there. She never liked to come back to the house aftershe had left it, or to face the landlady who had tyrannized over herwhen ill-humoured and unpaid, or when pleased had treated her with acoarse familiarity scarcely less odious. Her servility and fulsomecompliments when Emmy was in prosperity were not more to that lady'sliking. She cast about notes of admiration all over the new house,extolling every article of furniture or ornament; she fingered Mrs.Osborne's dresses and calculated their price. Nothing could be too goodfor that sweet lady, she vowed and protested. But in the vulgarsycophant who now paid court to her, Emmy always remembered the coarsetyrant who had made her miserable many a time, to whom she had beenforced to put up petitions for time, when the rent was overdue; whocried out at her extravagance if she bought delicacies for her ailingmother or father; who had seen her humble and trampled upon her.

Nobody ever heard of these griefs, which had been part of our poorlittle woman's lot in life. She kept them secret from her father,whose improvidence was the cause of much of her misery. She had tobear all the blame of his misdoings, and indeed was so utterly gentleand humble as to be made by nature for a victim.

I hope she is not to suffer much more of that hard usage. And, as inall griefs there is said to be some consolation, I may mention thatpoor Mary, when left at her friend's departure in a hystericalcondition, was placed under the medical treatment of the young fellowfrom the surgery, under whose care she rallied after a short period.Emmy, when she went away from Brompton, endowed Mary with every articleof furniture that the house contained, only taking away her pictures(the two pictures over the bed) and her piano--that little old pianowhich had now passed into a plaintive jingling old age, but which sheloved for reasons of her own. She was a child when first she played onit, and her parents gave it her. It had been given to her again since,as the reader may remember, when her father's house was gone to ruinand the instrument was recovered out of the wreck.

Major Dobbin was exceedingly pleased when, as he was superintending thearrangements of Jos's new house--which the Major insisted should bevery handsome and comfortable--the cart arrived from Brompton, bringingthe trunks and bandboxes of the emigrants from that village, and withthem the old piano. Amelia would have it up in her sitting-room, aneat little apartment on the second floor, adjoining her father'schamber, and where the old gentleman sat commonly of evenings.

When the men appeared then bearing this old music-box, and Amelia gaveorders that it should be placed in the chamber aforesaid, Dobbin wasquite elated. "I'm glad you've kept it," he said in a very sentimentalmanner. "I was afraid you didn't care about it."

"I value it more than anything I have in the world," said Amelia.

"Do you, Amelia?" cried the Major. The fact was, as he had bought ithimself, though he never said anything about it, it never entered intohis head to suppose that Emmy should think anybody else was thepurchaser, and as a matter of course he fancied that she knew the giftcame from him. "Do you, Amelia?" he said; and the question, the greatquestion of all, was trembling on his lips, when Emmy replied--

"Can I do otherwise?--did not he give it me?"

"I did not know," said poor old Dob, and his countenance fell.

Emmy did not note the circumstance at the time, nor take immediate heedof the very dismal expression which honest Dobbin's countenanceassumed, but she thought of it afterwards. And then it struck her,with inexpressible pain and mortification too, that it was William whowas the giver of the piano, and not George, as she had fancied. It wasnot George's gift; the only one which she had received from her lover,as she thought--the thing she had cherished beyond all others--herdearest relic and prize. She had spoken to it about George; played hisfavourite airs upon it; sat for long evening hours, touching, to thebest of her simple art, melancholy harmonies on the keys, and weepingover them in silence. It was not George's relic. It was valueless now.The next time that old Sedley asked her to play, she said it wasshockingly out of tune, that she had a headache, that she couldn't play.

Then, according to her custom, she rebuked herself for her pettishnessand ingratitude and determined to make a reparation to honest Williamfor the slight she had not expressed to him, but had felt for hispiano. A few days afterwards, as they were seated in the drawing-room,where Jos had fallen asleep with great comfort after dinner, Ameliasaid with rather a faltering voice to Major Dobbin--

"I have to beg your pardon for something."

"About what?" said he.

"About--about that little square piano. I never thanked you for itwhen you gave it me, many, many years ago, before I was married. Ithought somebody else had given it. Thank you, William." She held outher hand, but the poor little woman's heart was bleeding; and as forher eyes, of course they were at their work.

But William could hold no more. "Amelia, Amelia," he said, "I did buyit for you. I loved you then as I do now. I must tell you. I think Iloved you from the first minute that I saw you, when George brought meto your house, to show me the Amelia whom he was engaged to. You werebut a girl, in white, with large ringlets; you came down singing--doyou remember?--and we went to Vauxhall. Since then I have thought ofbut one woman in the world, and that was you. I think there is no hourin the day has passed for twelve years that I haven't thought of you.I came to tell you this before I went to India, but you did not care,and I hadn't the heart to speak. You did not care whether I stayed orwent."

"I was very ungrateful," Amelia said.

"No, only indifferent," Dobbin continued desperately. "I have nothingto make a woman to be otherwise. I know what you are feeling now. Youare hurt in your heart at the discovery about the piano, and that itcame from me and not from George. I forgot, or I should never havespoken of it so. It is for me to ask your pardon for being a fool fora moment, and thinking that years of constancy and devotion might havepleaded with you."

"It is you who are cruel now," Amelia said with some spirit. "George ismy husband, here and in heaven. How could I love any other but him? Iam his now as when you first saw me, dear William. It was he who toldme how good and generous you were, and who taught me to love you as abrother. Have you not been everything to me and my boy? Our dearest,truest, kindest friend and protector? Had you come a few months soonerperhaps you might have spared me that--that dreadful parting. Oh, itnearly killed me, William--but you didn't come, though I wished andprayed for you to come, and they took him too away from me. Isn't he anoble boy, William? Be his friend still and mine"--and here her voicebroke, and she hid her face on his shoulder.

The Major folded his arms round her, holding her to him as if she was achild, and kissed her head. "I will not change, dear Amelia," he said."I ask for no more than your love. I think I would not have itotherwise. Only let me stay near you and see you often."

"Yes, often," Amelia said. And so William was at liberty to look andlong--as the poor boy at school who has no money may sigh after thecontents of the tart-woman's tray.