Chapter: Between London and Chatham

On quitting Brighton, our friend George, as became a person of rank and
fashion travelling in a barouche with four horses, drove in state to a
fine hotel in Cavendish Square, where a suite of splendid rooms, and a
table magnificently furnished with plate and surrounded by a half-dozen
of black and silent waiters, was ready to receive the young gentleman
and his bride.  George did the honours of the place with a princely air
to Jos and Dobbin; and Amelia, for the first time, and with exceeding
shyness and timidity, presided at what George called her own table.

George pooh-poohed the wine and bullied the waiters royally, and Jos
gobbled the turtle with immense satisfaction. Dobbin helped him to it;
for the lady of the house, before whom the tureen was placed, was so
ignorant of the contents, that she was going to help Mr. Sedley without
bestowing upon him either calipash or calipee.

The splendour of the entertainment, and the apartments in which it was
given, alarmed Mr. Dobbin, who remonstrated after dinner, when Jos was
asleep in the great chair.  But in vain he cried out against the
enormity of turtle and champagne that was fit for an archbishop. "I've
always been accustomed to travel like a gentleman," George said, "and,
damme, my wife shall travel like a lady.  As long as there's a shot in
the locker, she shall want for nothing," said the generous fellow,
quite pleased with himself for his magnificence of spirit.  Nor did
Dobbin try and convince him that Amelia's happiness was not centred in
turtle-soup.

A while after dinner, Amelia timidly expressed a wish to go and see her
mamma, at Fulham: which permission George granted her with some
grumbling.  And she tripped away to her enormous bedroom, in the centre
of which stood the enormous funereal bed, "that the Emperor
Halixander's sister slep in when the allied sufferings was here," and
put on her little bonnet and shawl with the utmost eagerness and
pleasure.  George was still drinking claret when she returned to the
dining-room, and made no signs of moving.  "Ar'n't you coming with me,
dearest?" she asked him.  No; the "dearest" had "business" that night.
His man should get her a coach and go with her.  And the coach being at
the door of the hotel, Amelia made George a little disappointed curtsey
after looking vainly into his face once or twice, and went sadly down
the great staircase, Captain Dobbin after, who handed her into the
vehicle, and saw it drive away to its destination. The very valet was
ashamed of mentioning the address to the hackney-coachman before the
hotel waiters, and promised to instruct him when they got further on.

Dobbin walked home to his old quarters and the Slaughters', thinking
very likely that it would be delightful to be in that hackney-coach,
along with Mrs. Osborne. George was evidently of quite a different
taste; for when he had taken wine enough, he went off to half-price at
the play, to see Mr. Kean perform in Shylock.  Captain Osborne was a
great lover of the drama, and had himself performed high-comedy
characters with great distinction in several garrison theatrical
entertainments.  Jos slept on until long after dark, when he woke up
with a start at the motions of his servant, who was removing and
emptying the decanters on the table; and the hackney-coach stand was
again put into requisition for a carriage to convey this stout hero to
his lodgings and bed.

Mrs. Sedley, you may be sure, clasped her daughter to her heart with
all maternal eagerness and affection, running out of the door as the
carriage drew up before the little garden-gate, to welcome the weeping,
trembling, young bride.  Old Mr. Clapp, who was in his shirt-sleeves,
trimming the garden-plot, shrank back alarmed.  The Irish servant-lass
rushed up from the kitchen and smiled a "God bless you."  Amelia could
hardly walk along the flags and up the steps into the parlour.

How the floodgates were opened, and mother and daughter wept, when they
were together embracing each other in this sanctuary, may readily be
imagined by every reader who possesses the least sentimental turn.
When don't ladies weep?  At what occasion of joy, sorrow, or other
business of life, and, after such an event as a marriage, mother and
daughter were surely at liberty to give way to a sensibility which is
as tender as it is refreshing. About a question of marriage I have seen
women who hate each other kiss and cry together quite fondly. How much
more do they feel when they love!  Good mothers are married over again
at their daughters' weddings: and as for subsequent events, who does
not know how ultra-maternal grandmothers are?--in fact a woman, until
she is a grandmother, does not often really know what to be a mother
is.  Let us respect Amelia and her mamma whispering and whimpering and
laughing and crying in the parlour and the twilight.  Old Mr. Sedley
did.  HE had not divined who was in the carriage when it drove up. He
had not flown out to meet his daughter, though he kissed her very
warmly when she entered the room (where he was occupied, as usual, with
his papers and tapes and statements of accounts), and after sitting
with the mother and daughter for a short time, he very wisely left the
little apartment in their possession.

George's valet was looking on in a very supercilious manner at Mr.
Clapp in his shirt-sleeves, watering his rose-bushes.  He took off his
hat, however, with much condescension to Mr. Sedley, who asked news
about his son-in-law, and about Jos's carriage, and whether his horses
had been down to Brighton, and about that infernal traitor Bonaparty,
and the war; until the Irish maid-servant came with a plate and a
bottle of wine, from which the old gentleman insisted upon helping the
valet.  He gave him a half-guinea too, which the servant pocketed with
a mixture of wonder and contempt.  "To the health of your master and
mistress, Trotter," Mr. Sedley said, "and here's something to drink
your health when you get home, Trotter."

There were but nine days past since Amelia had left that little cottage
and home--and yet how far off the time seemed since she had bidden it
farewell.  What a gulf lay between her and that past life. She could
look back to it from her present standing-place, and contemplate,
almost as another being, the young unmarried girl absorbed in her love,
having no eyes but for one special object, receiving parental affection
if not ungratefully, at least indifferently, and as if it were her
due--her whole heart and thoughts bent on the accomplishment of one
desire.  The review of those days, so lately gone yet so far away,
touched her with shame; and the aspect of the kind parents filled her
with tender remorse. Was the prize gained--the heaven of life--and the
winner still doubtful and unsatisfied?  As his hero and heroine pass
the matrimonial barrier, the novelist generally drops the curtain, as
if the drama were over then:  the doubts and struggles of life ended:
as if, once landed in the marriage country, all were green and pleasant
there:  and wife and husband had nothing to do but to link each other's
arms together, and wander gently downwards towards old age in happy and
perfect fruition.  But our little Amelia was just on the bank of her
new country, and was already looking anxiously back towards the sad
friendly figures waving farewell to her across the stream, from the
other distant shore.

In honour of the young bride's arrival, her mother thought it necessary
to prepare I don't know what festive entertainment, and after the first
ebullition of talk, took leave of Mrs. George Osborne for a while, and
dived down to the lower regions of the house to a sort of
kitchen-parlour (occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Clapp, and in the evening,
when her dishes were washed and her curl-papers removed, by Miss
Flannigan, the Irish servant), there to take measures for the preparing
of a magnificent ornamented tea.  All people have their ways of
expressing kindness, and it seemed to Mrs. Sedley that a muffin and a
quantity of orange marmalade spread out in a little cut-glass saucer
would be peculiarly agreeable refreshments to Amelia in her most
interesting situation.

While these delicacies were being transacted below, Amelia, leaving the
drawing-room, walked upstairs and found herself, she scarce knew how,
in the little room which she had occupied before her marriage, and in
that very chair in which she had passed so many bitter hours. She sank
back in its arms as if it were an old friend; and fell to thinking over
the past week, and the life beyond it.  Already to be looking sadly and
vaguely back: always to be pining for something which, when obtained,
brought doubt and sadness rather than pleasure; here was the lot of our
poor little creature and harmless lost wanderer in the great struggling
crowds of Vanity Fair.

Here she sate, and recalled to herself fondly that image of George to
which she had knelt before marriage.  Did she own to herself how
different the real man was from that superb young hero whom she had
worshipped?  It requires many, many years--and a man must be very bad
indeed--before a woman's pride and vanity will let her own to such a
confession.  Then Rebecca's twinkling green eyes and baleful smile
lighted upon her, and filled her with dismay.  And so she sate for
awhile indulging in her usual mood of selfish brooding, in that very
listless melancholy attitude in which the honest maid-servant had found
her, on the day when she brought up the letter in which George renewed
his offer of marriage.

She looked at the little white bed, which had been hers a few days
before, and thought she would like to sleep in it that night, and wake,
as formerly, with her mother smiling over her in the morning: Then she
thought with terror of the great funereal damask pavilion in the vast
and dingy state bedroom, which was awaiting her at the grand hotel in
Cavendish Square.  Dear little white bed! how many a long night had she
wept on its pillow! How she had despaired and hoped to die there; and
now were not all her wishes accomplished, and the lover of whom she had
despaired her own for ever?  Kind mother! how patiently and tenderly
she had watched round that bed! She went and knelt down by the bedside;
and there this wounded and timorous, but gentle and loving soul, sought
for consolation, where as yet, it must be owned, our little girl had
but seldom looked for it.  Love had been her faith hitherto; and the
sad, bleeding disappointed heart began to feel the want of another
consoler.

Have we a right to repeat or to overhear her prayers? These, brother,
are secrets, and out of the domain of Vanity Fair, in which our story
lies.

But this may be said, that when the tea was finally announced, our
young lady came downstairs a great deal more cheerful; that she did not
despond, or deplore her fate, or think about George's coldness, or
Rebecca's eyes, as she had been wont to do of late.  She went
downstairs, and kissed her father and mother, and talked to the old
gentleman, and made him more merry than he had been for many a day. She
sate down at the piano which Dobbin had bought for her, and sang over
all her father's favourite old songs.  She pronounced the tea to be
excellent, and praised the exquisite taste in which the marmalade was
arranged in the saucers.  And in determining to make everybody else
happy, she found herself so; and was sound asleep in the great funereal
pavilion, and only woke up with a smile when George arrived from the
theatre.

For the next day, George had more important "business" to transact than
that which took him to see Mr. Kean in Shylock.  Immediately on his
arrival in London he had written off to his father's solicitors,
signifying his royal pleasure that an interview should take place
between them on the morrow.  His hotel bill, losses at billiards and
cards to Captain Crawley had almost drained the young man's purse,
which wanted replenishing before he set out on his travels, and he had
no resource but to infringe upon the two thousand pounds which the
attorneys were commissioned to pay over to him.  He had a perfect
belief in his own mind that his father would relent before very long.
How could any parent be obdurate for a length of time against such a
paragon as he was?  If his mere past and personal merits did not
succeed in mollifying his father, George determined that he would
distinguish himself so prodigiously in the ensuing campaign that the
old gentleman must give in to him.  And if not? Bah! the world was
before him.  His luck might change at cards, and there was a deal of
spending in two thousand pounds.

So he sent off Amelia once more in a carriage to her mamma, with strict
orders and carte blanche to the two ladies to purchase everything
requisite for a lady of Mrs. George Osborne's fashion, who was going on
a foreign tour.  They had but one day to complete the outfit, and it
may be imagined that their business therefore occupied them pretty
fully.  In a carriage once more, bustling about from milliner to
linen-draper, escorted back to the carriage by obsequious shopmen or
polite owners, Mrs. Sedley was herself again almost, and sincerely
happy for the first time since their misfortunes.  Nor was Mrs. Amelia
at all above the pleasure of shopping, and bargaining, and seeing and
buying pretty things. (Would any man, the most philosophic, give
twopence for a woman who was?)  She gave herself a little treat,
obedient to her husband's orders, and purchased a quantity of lady's
gear, showing a great deal of taste and elegant discernment, as all the
shopfolks said.

And about the war that was ensuing, Mrs. Osborne was not much alarmed;
Bonaparty was to be crushed almost without a struggle. Margate packets
were sailing every day, filled with men of fashion and ladies of note,
on their way to Brussels and Ghent.  People were going not so much to a
war as to a fashionable tour.  The newspapers laughed the wretched
upstart and swindler to scorn.  Such a Corsican wretch as that
withstand the armies of Europe and the genius of the immortal
Wellington!  Amelia held him in utter contempt; for it needs not to be
said that this soft and gentle creature took her opinions from those
people who surrounded her, such fidelity being much too humble-minded
to think for itself. Well, in a word, she and her mother performed a
great day's shopping, and she acquitted herself with considerable
liveliness and credit on this her first appearance in the genteel world
of London.

George meanwhile, with his hat on one side, his elbows squared, and his
swaggering martial air, made for Bedford Row, and stalked into the
attorney's offices as if he was lord of every pale-faced clerk who was
scribbling there.  He ordered somebody to inform Mr. Higgs that Captain
Osborne was waiting, in a fierce and patronizing way, as if the pekin
of an attorney, who had thrice his brains, fifty times his money, and a
thousand times his experience, was a wretched underling who should
instantly leave all his business in life to attend on the Captain's
pleasure.  He did not see the sneer of contempt which passed all round
the room, from the first clerk to the articled gents, from the articled
gents to the ragged writers and white-faced runners, in clothes too
tight for them, as he sate there tapping his boot with his cane, and
thinking what a parcel of miserable poor devils these were.  The
miserable poor devils knew all about his affairs.  They talked about
them over their pints of beer at their public-house clubs to other
clerks of a night. Ye gods, what do not attorneys and attorneys' clerks
know in London! Nothing is hidden from their inquisition, and their
families mutely rule our city.

Perhaps George expected, when he entered Mr. Higgs's apartment, to find
that gentleman commissioned to give him some message of compromise or
conciliation from his father; perhaps his haughty and cold demeanour
was adopted as a sign of his spirit and resolution: but if so, his
fierceness was met by a chilling coolness and indifference on the
attorney's part, that rendered swaggering absurd.  He pretended to be
writing at a paper, when the Captain entered.  "Pray, sit down, sir,"
said he, "and I will attend to your little affair in a moment.  Mr.
Poe, get the release papers, if you please"; and then he fell to
writing again.

Poe having produced those papers, his chief calculated the amount of
two thousand pounds stock at the rate of the day; and asked Captain
Osborne whether he would take the sum in a cheque upon the bankers, or
whether he should direct the latter to purchase stock to that amount.
"One of the late Mrs. Osborne's trustees is out of town," he said
indifferently, "but my client wishes to meet your wishes, and have done
with the business as quick as possible."

"Give me a cheque, sir," said the Captain very surlily. "Damn the
shillings and halfpence, sir," he added, as the lawyer was making out
the amount of the draft; and, flattering himself that by this stroke of
magnanimity he had put the old quiz to the blush, he stalked out of the
office with the paper in his pocket.

"That chap will be in gaol in two years," Mr. Higgs said to Mr. Poe.

"Won't O. come round, sir, don't you think?"

"Won't the monument come round," Mr. Higgs replied.

"He's going it pretty fast," said the clerk.  "He's only married a
week, and I saw him and some other military chaps handing Mrs.
Highflyer to her carriage after the play." And then another case was
called, and Mr. George Osborne thenceforth dismissed from these worthy
gentlemen's memory.

The draft was upon our friends Hulker and Bullock of Lombard Street, to
whose house, still thinking he was doing business, George bent his way,
and from whom he received his money.  Frederick Bullock, Esq., whose
yellow face was over a ledger, at which sate a demure clerk, happened
to be in the banking-room when George entered. His yellow face turned
to a more deadly colour when he saw the Captain, and he slunk back
guiltily into the inmost parlour.  George was too busy gloating over
the money (for he had never had such a sum before), to mark the
countenance or flight of the cadaverous suitor of his sister.

Fred Bullock told old Osborne of his son's appearance and conduct. "He
came in as bold as brass," said Frederick.  "He has drawn out every
shilling.  How long will a few hundred pounds last such a chap as
that?" Osborne swore with a great oath that he little cared when or how
soon he spent it.  Fred dined every day in Russell Square now.  But
altogether, George was highly pleased with his day's business.  All his
own baggage and outfit was put into a state of speedy preparation, and
he paid Amelia's purchases with cheques on his agents, and with the
splendour of a lord.



In Which Amelia Joins Her Regiment

When Jos's fine carriage drove up to the inn door at Chatham, the first
face which Amelia recognized was the friendly countenance of Captain
Dobbin, who had been pacing the street for an hour past in expectation
of his friends' arrival.  The Captain, with shells on his frockcoat,
and a crimson sash and sabre, presented a military appearance, which
made Jos quite proud to be able to claim such an acquaintance, and the
stout civilian hailed him with a cordiality very different from the
reception which Jos vouchsafed to his friend in Brighton and Bond
Street.

Along with the Captain was Ensign Stubble; who, as the barouche neared
the inn, burst out with an exclamation of "By Jove! what a pretty
girl"; highly applauding Osborne's choice.  Indeed, Amelia dressed in
her wedding-pelisse and pink ribbons, with a flush in her face,
occasioned by rapid travel through the open air, looked so fresh and
pretty, as fully to justify the Ensign's compliment. Dobbin liked him
for making it.  As he stepped forward to help the lady out of the
carriage, Stubble saw what a pretty little hand she gave him, and what
a sweet pretty little foot came tripping down the step.  He blushed
profusely, and made the very best bow of which he was capable; to which
Amelia, seeing the number of the the regiment embroidered on the
Ensign's cap, replied with a blushing smile, and a curtsey on her part;
which finished the young Ensign on the spot. Dobbin took most kindly to
Mr. Stubble from that day, and encouraged him to talk about Amelia in
their private walks, and at each other's quarters.  It became the
fashion, indeed, among all the honest young fellows of the --th to
adore and admire Mrs. Osborne.  Her simple artless behaviour, and
modest kindness of demeanour, won all their unsophisticated hearts; all
which simplicity and sweetness are quite impossible to describe in
print.  But who has not beheld these among women, and recognised the
presence of all sorts of qualities in them, even though they say no
more to you than that they are engaged to dance the next quadrille, or
that it is very hot weather? George, always the champion of his
regiment, rose immensely in the opinion of the youth of the corps, by
his gallantry in marrying this portionless young creature, and by his
choice of such a pretty kind partner.

In the sitting-room which was awaiting the travellers, Amelia, to her
surprise, found a letter addressed to Mrs. Captain Osborne.  It was a
triangular billet, on pink paper, and sealed with a dove and an olive
branch, and a profusion of light blue sealing wax, and it was written
in a very large, though undecided female hand.

"It's Peggy O'Dowd's fist," said George, laughing.  "I know it by the
kisses on the seal." And in fact, it was a note from Mrs. Major O'Dowd,
requesting the pleasure of Mrs. Osborne's company that very evening to
a small friendly party.  "You must go," George said. "You will make
acquaintance with the regiment there.  O'Dowd goes in command of the
regiment, and Peggy goes in command."

But they had not been for many minutes in the enjoyment of Mrs.
O'Dowd's letter, when the door was flung open, and a stout jolly lady,
in a riding-habit, followed by a couple of officers of Ours, entered
the room.

"Sure, I couldn't stop till tay-time.  Present me, Garge, my dear
fellow, to your lady.  Madam, I'm deloighted to see ye; and to present
to you me husband, Meejor O'Dowd"; and with this, the jolly lady in the
riding-habit grasped Amelia's hand very warmly, and the latter knew at
once that the lady was before her whom her husband had so often laughed
at.  "You've often heard of me from that husband of yours," said the
lady, with great vivacity.

"You've often heard of her," echoed her husband, the Major.

Amelia answered, smiling, "that she had."

"And small good he's told you of me," Mrs. O'Dowd replied; adding that
"George was a wicked divvle."

"That I'll go bail for," said the Major, trying to look knowing, at
which George laughed; and Mrs. O'Dowd, with a tap of her whip, told the
Major to be quiet; and then requested to be presented in form to Mrs.
Captain Osborne.

"This, my dear," said George with great gravity, "is my very good,
kind, and excellent friend, Auralia Margaretta, otherwise called Peggy."

"Faith, you're right," interposed the Major.

"Otherwise called Peggy, lady of Major Michael O'Dowd, of our regiment,
and daughter of Fitzjurld Ber'sford de Burgo Malony of Glenmalony,
County Kildare."

"And Muryan Squeer, Doblin," said the lady with calm superiority.

"And Muryan Square, sure enough," the Major whispered.

"'Twas there ye coorted me, Meejor dear," the lady said; and the Major
assented to this as to every other proposition which was made generally
in company.

Major O'Dowd, who had served his sovereign in every quarter of the
world, and had paid for every step in his profession by some more than
equivalent act of daring and gallantry, was the most modest, silent,
sheep-faced and meek of little men, and as obedient to his wife as if
he had been her tay-boy.  At the mess-table he sat silently, and drank
a great deal.  When full of liquor, he reeled silently home.  When he
spoke, it was to agree with everybody on every conceivable point; and
he passed through life in perfect ease and good-humour.  The hottest
suns of India never heated his temper; and the Walcheren ague never
shook it.  He walked up to a battery with just as much indifference as
to a dinner-table; had dined on horse-flesh and turtle with equal
relish and appetite; and had an old mother, Mrs. O'Dowd of O'Dowdstown
indeed, whom he had never disobeyed but when he ran away and enlisted,
and when he persisted in marrying that odious Peggy Malony.

Peggy was one of five sisters, and eleven children of the noble house
of Glenmalony; but her husband, though her own cousin, was of the
mother's side, and so had not the inestimable advantage of being allied
to the Malonys, whom she believed to be the most famous family in the
world.  Having tried nine seasons at Dublin and two at Bath and
Cheltenham, and not finding a partner for life, Miss Malony ordered her
cousin Mick to marry her when she was about thirty-three years of age;
and the honest fellow obeying, carried her off to the West Indies, to
preside over the ladies of the --th regiment, into which he had just
exchanged.

Before Mrs. O'Dowd was half an hour in Amelia's (or indeed in anybody
else's) company, this amiable lady told all her birth and pedigree to
her new friend.  "My dear," said she, good-naturedly, "it was my
intention that Garge should be a brother of my own, and my sister
Glorvina would have suited him entirely.  But as bygones are bygones,
and he was engaged to yourself, why, I'm determined to take you as a
sister instead, and to look upon you as such, and to love you as one of
the family.  Faith, you've got such a nice good-natured face and way
widg you, that I'm sure we'll agree; and that you'll be an addition to
our family anyway."

"'Deed and she will," said O'Dowd, with an approving air, and Amelia
felt herself not a little amused and grateful to be thus suddenly
introduced to so large a party of relations.

"We're all good fellows here," the Major's lady continued. "There's not
a regiment in the service where you'll find a more united society nor a
more agreeable mess-room.  There's no quarrelling, bickering,
slandthering, nor small talk amongst us.  We all love each other."

"Especially Mrs. Magenis," said George, laughing.

"Mrs. Captain Magenis and me has made up, though her treatment of me
would bring me gray hairs with sorrow to the grave."

"And you with such a beautiful front of black, Peggy, my dear," the
Major cried.

"Hould your tongue, Mick, you booby.  Them husbands are always in the
way, Mrs. Osborne, my dear; and as for my Mick, I often tell him he
should never open his mouth but to give the word of command, or to put
meat and drink into it.  I'll tell you about the regiment, and warn you
when we're alone.  Introduce me to your brother now; sure he's a mighty
fine man, and reminds me of me cousin, Dan Malony (Malony of
Ballymalony, my dear, you know who mar'ied Ophalia Scully, of
Oystherstown, own cousin to Lord Poldoody).  Mr. Sedley, sir, I'm
deloighted to be made known te ye.  I suppose you'll dine at the mess
to-day.  (Mind that divvle of a docther, Mick, and whatever ye du, keep
yourself sober for me party this evening.)"

"It's the 150th gives us a farewell dinner, my love," interposed the
Major, "but we'll easy get a card for Mr. Sedley."

"Run Simple (Ensign Simple, of Ours, my dear Amelia. I forgot to
introjuice him to ye).  Run in a hurry, with Mrs. Major O'Dowd's
compliments to Colonel Tavish, and Captain Osborne has brought his
brothernlaw down, and will bring him to the 150th mess at five o'clock
sharp--when you and I, my dear, will take a snack here, if you like."
Before Mrs. O'Dowd's speech was concluded, the young Ensign was
trotting downstairs on his commission.

"Obedience is the soul of the army.  We will go to our duty while Mrs.
O'Dowd will stay and enlighten you, Emmy," Captain Osborne said; and
the two gentlemen, taking each a wing of the Major, walked out with
that officer, grinning at each other over his head.

And, now having her new friend to herself, the impetuous Mrs. O'Dowd
proceeded to pour out such a quantity of information as no poor little
woman's memory could ever tax itself to bear.  She told Amelia a
thousand particulars relative to the very numerous family of which the
amazed young lady found herself a member.  "Mrs. Heavytop, the
Colonel's wife, died in Jamaica of the yellow faver and a broken heart
comboined, for the horrud old Colonel, with a head as bald as a
cannon-ball, was making sheep's eyes at a half-caste girl there.  Mrs.
Magenis, though without education, was a good woman, but she had the
divvle's tongue, and would cheat her own mother at whist.  Mrs. Captain
Kirk must turn up her lobster eyes forsooth at the idea of an honest
round game (wherein me fawther, as pious a man as ever went to church,
me uncle Dane Malony, and our cousin the Bishop, took a hand at loo, or
whist, every night of their lives).  Nayther of 'em's goin' with the
regiment this time," Mrs. O'Dowd added.  "Fanny Magenis stops with her
mother, who sells small coal and potatoes, most likely, in
Islington-town, hard by London, though she's always bragging of her
father's ships, and pointing them out to us as they go up the river:
and Mrs. Kirk and her children will stop here in Bethesda Place, to be
nigh to her favourite preacher, Dr. Ramshorn.  Mrs. Bunny's in an
interesting situation--faith, and she always is, then--and has given
the Lieutenant seven already.  And Ensign Posky's wife, who joined two
months before you, my dear, has quarl'd with Tom Posky a score of
times, till you can hear'm all over the bar'ck (they say they're come
to broken pleets, and Tom never accounted for his black oi), and she'll
go back to her mother, who keeps a ladies' siminary at Richmond--bad
luck to her for running away from it!  Where did ye get your finishing,
my dear?  I had moin, and no expince spared, at Madame Flanahan's, at
Ilyssus Grove, Booterstown, near Dublin, wid a Marchioness to teach us
the true Parisian pronunciation, and a retired Mejor-General of the
French service to put us through the exercise."

Of this incongruous family our astonished Amelia found herself all of a
sudden a member:  with Mrs. O'Dowd as an elder sister.  She was
presented to her other female relations at tea-time, on whom, as she
was quiet, good-natured, and not too handsome, she made rather an
agreeable impression until the arrival of the gentlemen from the mess
of the 150th, who all admired her so, that her sisters began, of
course, to find fault with her.

"I hope Osborne has sown his wild oats," said Mrs. Magenis to Mrs.
Bunny.  "If a reformed rake makes a good husband, sure it's she will
have the fine chance with Garge," Mrs. O'Dowd remarked to Posky, who
had lost her position as bride in the regiment, and was quite angry
with the usurper.  And as for Mrs. Kirk:  that disciple of Dr. Ramshorn
put one or two leading professional questions to Amelia, to see whether
she was awakened, whether she was a professing Christian and so forth,
and finding from the simplicity of Mrs. Osborne's replies that she was
yet in utter darkness, put into her hands three little penny books with
pictures, viz., the "Howling Wilderness," the "Washerwoman of
Wandsworth Common," and the "British Soldier's best Bayonet," which,
bent upon awakening her before she slept, Mrs. Kirk begged Amelia to
read that night ere she went to bed.

But all the men, like good fellows as they were, rallied round their
comrade's pretty wife, and paid her their court with soldierly
gallantry.  She had a little triumph, which flushed her spirits and
made her eyes sparkle. George was proud of her popularity, and pleased
with the manner (which was very gay and graceful, though naive and a
little timid) with which she received the gentlemen's attentions, and
answered their compliments.  And he in his uniform--how much handsomer
he was than any man in the room!  She felt that he was affectionately
watching her, and glowed with pleasure at his kindness.  "I will make
all his friends welcome," she resolved in her heart.  "I will love all
as I love him.  I will always try and be gay and good-humoured and make
his home happy."

The regiment indeed adopted her with acclamation. The Captains
approved, the Lieutenants applauded, the Ensigns admired.  Old Cutler,
the Doctor, made one or two jokes, which, being professional, need not
be repeated; and Cackle, the Assistant M.D. of Edinburgh, condescended
to examine her upon leeterature, and tried her with his three best
French quotations.  Young Stubble went about from man to man
whispering, "Jove, isn't she a pretty gal?" and never took his eyes off
her except when the negus came in.

As for Captain Dobbin, he never so much as spoke to her during the
whole evening.  But he and Captain Porter of the 150th took home Jos to
the hotel, who was in a very maudlin state, and had told his tiger-hunt
story with great effect, both at the mess-table and at the soiree, to
Mrs. O'Dowd in her turban and bird of paradise. Having put the
Collector into the hands of his servant, Dobbin loitered about, smoking
his cigar before the inn door. George had meanwhile very carefully
shawled his wife, and brought her away from Mrs. O'Dowd's after a
general handshaking from the young officers, who accompanied her to the
fly, and cheered that vehicle as it drove off.  So Amelia gave Dobbin
her little hand as she got out of the carriage, and rebuked him
smilingly for not having taken any notice of her all night.

The Captain continued that deleterious amusement of smoking, long after
the inn and the street were gone to bed.  He watched the lights vanish
from George's sitting-room windows, and shine out in the bedroom close
at hand.  It was almost morning when he returned to his own quarters.
He could hear the cheering from the ships in the river, where the
transports were already taking in their cargoes preparatory to dropping
down the Thames.



In Which Amelia Invades the Low Countries

The regiment with its officers was to be transported in ships provided
by His Majesty's government for the occasion:  and in two days after
the festive assembly at Mrs. O'Dowd's apartments, in the midst of
cheering from all the East India ships in the river, and the military
on shore, the band playing "God Save the King," the officers waving
their hats, and the crews hurrahing gallantly, the transports went down
the river and proceeded under convoy to Ostend. Meanwhile the gallant
Jos had agreed to escort his sister and the Major's wife, the bulk of
whose goods and chattels, including the famous bird of paradise and
turban, were with the regimental baggage: so that our two heroines
drove pretty much unencumbered to Ramsgate, where there were plenty of
packets plying, in one of which they had a speedy passage to Ostend.

That period of Jos's life which now ensued was so full of incident,
that it served him for conversation for many years after, and even the
tiger-hunt story was put aside for more stirring narratives which he
had to tell about the great campaign of Waterloo.  As soon as he had
agreed to escort his sister abroad, it was remarked that he ceased
shaving his upper lip.  At Chatham he followed the parades and drills
with great assiduity.  He listened with the utmost attention to the
conversation of his brother officers (as he called them in after days
sometimes), and learned as many military names as he could. In these
studies the excellent Mrs. O'Dowd was of great assistance to him; and
on the day finally when they embarked on board the Lovely Rose, which
was to carry them to their destination, he made his appearance in a
braided frock-coat and duck trousers, with a foraging cap ornamented
with a smart gold band.  Having his carriage with him, and informing
everybody on board confidentially that he was going to join the Duke of
Wellington's army, folks mistook him for a great personage, a
commissary-general, or a government courier at the very least.

He suffered hugely on the voyage, during which the ladies were likewise
prostrate; but Amelia was brought to life again as the packet made
Ostend, by the sight of the transports conveying her regiment, which
entered the harbour almost at the same time with the Lovely Rose. Jos
went in a collapsed state to an inn, while Captain Dobbin escorted the
ladies, and then busied himself in freeing Jos's carriage and luggage
from the ship and the custom-house, for Mr. Jos was at present without
a servant, Osborne's man and his own pampered menial having conspired
together at Chatham, and refused point-blank to cross the water.  This
revolt, which came very suddenly, and on the last day, so alarmed Mr.
Sedley, junior, that he was on the point of giving up the expedition,
but Captain Dobbin (who made himself immensely officious in the
business, Jos said), rated him and laughed at him soundly:  the
mustachios were grown in advance, and Jos finally was persuaded to
embark.  In place of the well-bred and well-fed London domestics, who
could only speak English, Dobbin procured for Jos's party a swarthy
little Belgian servant who could speak no language at all; but who, by
his bustling behaviour, and by invariably addressing Mr. Sedley as "My
lord," speedily acquired that gentleman's favour.  Times are altered at
Ostend now; of the Britons who go thither, very few look like lords, or
act like those members of our hereditary aristocracy.  They seem for
the most part shabby in attire, dingy of linen, lovers of billiards and
brandy, and cigars and greasy ordinaries.

But it may be said as a rule, that every Englishman in the Duke of
Wellington's army paid his way.  The remembrance of such a fact surely
becomes a nation of shopkeepers.  It was a blessing for a
commerce-loving country to be overrun by such an army of customers: and
to have such creditable warriors to feed.  And the country which they
came to protect is not military.  For a long period of history they
have let other people fight there.  When the present writer went to
survey with eagle glance the field of Waterloo, we asked the conductor
of the diligence, a portly warlike-looking veteran, whether he had been
at the battle.  "Pas si bete"--such an answer and sentiment as no
Frenchman would own to--was his reply.  But, on the other hand, the
postilion who drove us was a Viscount, a son of some bankrupt Imperial
General, who accepted a pennyworth of beer on the road.  The moral is
surely a good one.

This flat, flourishing, easy country never could have looked more rich
and prosperous than in that opening summer of 1815, when its green
fields and quiet cities were enlivened by multiplied red-coats: when
its wide chaussees swarmed with brilliant English equipages: when its
great canal-boats, gliding by rich pastures and pleasant quaint old
villages, by old chateaux lying amongst old trees, were all crowded
with well-to-do English travellers: when the soldier who drank at the
village inn, not only drank, but paid his score; and Donald, the
Highlander, billeted in the Flemish farm-house, rocked the baby's
cradle, while Jean and Jeannette were out getting in the hay.  As our
painters are bent on military subjects just now, I throw out this as a
good subject for the pencil, to illustrate the principle of an honest
English war.  All looked as brilliant and harmless as a Hyde Park
review.  Meanwhile, Napoleon screened behind his curtain of
frontier-fortresses, was preparing for the outbreak which was to drive
all these orderly people into fury and blood; and lay so many of them
low.

Everybody had such a perfect feeling of confidence in the leader (for
the resolute faith which the Duke of Wellington had inspired in the
whole English nation was as intense as that more frantic enthusiasm
with which at one time the French regarded Napoleon), the country
seemed in so perfect a state of orderly defence, and the help at hand
in case of need so near and overwhelming, that alarm was unknown, and
our travellers, among whom two were naturally of a very timid sort,
were, like all the other multiplied English tourists, entirely at ease.
The famous regiment, with so many of whose officers we have made
acquaintance, was drafted in canal boats to Bruges and Ghent, thence to
march to Brussels. Jos accompanied the ladies in the public boats; the
which all old travellers in Flanders must remember for the luxury and
accommodation they afforded.  So prodigiously good was the eating and
drinking on board these sluggish but most comfortable vessels, that
there are legends extant of an English traveller, who, coming to
Belgium for a week, and travelling in one of these boats, was so
delighted with the fare there that he went backwards and forwards from
Ghent to Bruges perpetually until the railroads were invented, when he
drowned himself on the last trip of the passage-boat.  Jos's death was
not to be of this sort, but his comfort was exceeding, and Mrs. O'Dowd
insisted that he only wanted her sister Glorvina to make his happiness
complete.  He sate on the roof of the cabin all day drinking Flemish
beer, shouting for Isidor, his servant, and talking gallantly to the
ladies.

His courage was prodigious.  "Boney attack us!" he cried.  "My dear
creature, my poor Emmy, don't be frightened.  There's no danger. The
allies will be in Paris in two months, I tell you; when I'll take you
to dine in the Palais Royal, by Jove!  There are three hundred thousand
Rooshians, I tell you, now entering France by Mayence and the
Rhine--three hundred thousand under Wittgenstein and Barclay de Tolly,
my poor love.  You don't know military affairs, my dear.  I do, and I
tell you there's no infantry in France can stand against Rooshian
infantry, and no general of Boney's that's fit to hold a candle to
Wittgenstein.  Then there are the Austrians, they are five hundred
thousand if a man, and they are within ten marches of the frontier by
this time, under Schwartzenberg and Prince Charles.  Then there are the
Prooshians under the gallant Prince Marshal.  Show me a cavalry chief
like him now that Murat is gone. Hey, Mrs. O'Dowd?  Do you think our
little girl here need be afraid? Is there any cause for fear, Isidor?
Hey, sir?  Get some more beer."

Mrs. O'Dowd said that her "Glorvina was not afraid of any man alive,
let alone a Frenchman," and tossed off a glass of beer with a wink
which expressed her liking for the beverage.

Having frequently been in presence of the enemy, or, in other words,
faced the ladies at Cheltenham and Bath, our friend, the Collector, had
lost a great deal of his pristine timidity, and was now, especially
when fortified with liquor, as talkative as might be.  He was rather a
favourite with the regiment, treating the young officers with
sumptuosity, and amusing them by his military airs. And as there is one
well-known regiment of the army which travels with a goat heading the
column, whilst another is led by a deer, George said with respect to
his brother-in-law, that his regiment marched with an elephant.

Since Amelia's introduction to the regiment, George began to be rather
ashamed of some of the company to which he had been forced to present
her; and determined, as he told Dobbin (with what satisfaction to the
latter it need not be said), to exchange into some better regiment
soon, and to get his wife away from those damned vulgar women.  But
this vulgarity of being ashamed of one's society is much more common
among men than women (except very great ladies of fashion, who, to be
sure, indulge in it); and Mrs. Amelia, a natural and unaffected person,
had none of that artificial shamefacedness which her husband mistook
for delicacy on his own part.  Thus Mrs. O'Dowd had a cock's plume in
her hat, and a very large "repayther" on her stomach, which she used to
ring on all occasions, narrating how it had been presented to her by
her fawther, as she stipt into the car'ge after her mar'ge; and these
ornaments, with other outward peculiarities of the Major's wife, gave
excruciating agonies to Captain Osborne, when his wife and the Major's
came in contact; whereas Amelia was only amused by the honest lady's
eccentricities, and not in the least ashamed of her company.

As they made that well-known journey, which almost every Englishman of
middle rank has travelled since, there might have been more
instructive, but few more entertaining, companions than Mrs. Major
O'Dowd.  "Talk about kenal boats; my dear!  Ye should see the kenal
boats between Dublin and Ballinasloe.  It's there the rapid travelling
is; and the beautiful cattle.  Sure me fawther got a goold medal (and
his Excellency himself eat a slice of it, and said never was finer mate
in his loif) for a four-year-old heifer, the like of which ye never saw
in this country any day." And Jos owned with a sigh, "that for good
streaky beef, really mingled with fat and lean, there was no country
like England."

"Except Ireland, where all your best mate comes from," said the Major's
lady; proceeding, as is not unusual with patriots of her nation, to
make comparisons greatly in favour of her own country. The idea of
comparing the market at Bruges with those of Dublin, although she had
suggested it herself, caused immense scorn and derision on her part.
"I'll thank ye tell me what they mean by that old gazabo on the top of
the market-place," said she, in a burst of ridicule fit to have brought
the old tower down.  The place was full of English soldiery as they
passed.  English bugles woke them in the morning; at nightfall they
went to bed to the note of the British fife and drum:  all the country
and Europe was in arms, and the greatest event of history pending:  and
honest Peggy O'Dowd, whom it concerned as well as another, went on
prattling about Ballinafad, and the horses in the stables at
Glenmalony, and the clar't drunk there; and Jos Sedley interposed about
curry and rice at Dumdum; and Amelia thought about her husband, and how
best she should show her love for him; as if these were the great
topics of the world.

Those who like to lay down the History-book, and to speculate upon what
MIGHT have happened in the world, but for the fatal occurrence of what
actually did take place (a most puzzling, amusing, ingenious, and
profitable kind of meditation), have no doubt often thought to
themselves what a specially bad time Napoleon took to come back from
Elba, and to let loose his eagle from Gulf San Juan to Notre Dame.  The
historians on our side tell us that the armies of the allied powers
were all providentially on a war-footing, and ready to bear down at a
moment's notice upon the Elban Emperor. The august jobbers assembled at
Vienna, and carving out the kingdoms of Europe according to their
wisdom, had such causes of quarrel among themselves as might have set
the armies which had overcome Napoleon to fight against each other, but
for the return of the object of unanimous hatred and fear.  This
monarch had an army in full force because he had jobbed to himself
Poland, and was determined to keep it:  another had robbed half Saxony,
and was bent upon maintaining his acquisition: Italy was the object of
a third's solicitude.  Each was protesting against the rapacity of the
other; and could the Corsican but have waited in prison until all these
parties were by the ears, he might have returned and reigned
unmolested.  But what would have become of our story and all our
friends, then?  If all the drops in it were dried up, what would become
of the sea?

In the meanwhile the business of life and living, and the pursuits of
pleasure, especially, went on as if no end were to be expected to them,
and no enemy in front. When our travellers arrived at Brussels, in
which their regiment was quartered, a great piece of good fortune, as
all said, they found themselves in one of the gayest and most brilliant
little capitals in Europe, and where all the Vanity Fair booths were
laid out with the most tempting liveliness and splendour.  Gambling was
here in profusion, and dancing in plenty:  feasting was there to fill
with delight that great gourmand of a Jos:  there was a theatre where a
miraculous Catalani was delighting all hearers:  beautiful rides, all
enlivened with martial splendour; a rare old city, with strange
costumes and wonderful architecture, to delight the eyes of little
Amelia, who had never before seen a foreign country, and fill her with
charming surprises: so that now and for a few weeks' space in a fine
handsome lodging, whereof the expenses were borne by Jos and Osborne,
who was flush of money and full of kind attentions to his wife--for
about a fortnight, I say, during which her honeymoon ended, Mrs. Amelia
was as pleased and happy as any little bride out of England.

Every day during this happy time there was novelty and amusement for
all parties.  There was a church to see, or a picture-gallery--there
was a ride, or an opera. The bands of the regiments were making music
at all hours.  The greatest folks of England walked in the Park--there
was a perpetual military festival.  George, taking out his wife to a
new jaunt or junket every night, was quite pleased with himself as
usual, and swore he was becoming quite a domestic character.  And a
jaunt or a junket with HIM!  Was it not enough to set this little heart
beating with joy?  Her letters home to her mother were filled with
delight and gratitude at this season.  Her husband bade her buy laces,
millinery, jewels, and gimcracks of all sorts.  Oh, he was the kindest,
best, and most generous of men!

The sight of the very great company of lords and ladies and fashionable
persons who thronged the town, and appeared in every public place,
filled George's truly British soul with intense delight.  They flung
off that happy frigidity and insolence of demeanour which occasionally
characterises the great at home, and appearing in numberless public
places, condescended to mingle with the rest of the company whom they
met there.  One night at a party given by the general of the division
to which George's regiment belonged, he had the honour of dancing with
Lady Blanche Thistlewood, Lord Bareacres' daughter; he bustled for ices
and refreshments for the two noble ladies; he pushed and squeezed for
Lady Bareacres' carriage; he bragged about the Countess when he got
home, in a way which his own father could not have surpassed.  He
called upon the ladies the next day; he rode by their side in the Park;
he asked their party to a great dinner at a restaurateur's, and was
quite wild with exultation when they agreed to come.  Old Bareacres,
who had not much pride and a large appetite, would go for a dinner
anywhere.

"I hope there will be no women besides our own party," Lady Bareacres
said, after reflecting upon the invitation which had been made, and
accepted with too much precipitancy.

"Gracious Heaven, Mamma--you don't suppose the man would bring his
wife," shrieked Lady Blanche, who had been languishing in George's arms
in the newly imported waltz for hours the night before.  "The men are
bearable, but their women--"

"Wife, just married, dev'lish pretty woman, I hear," the old Earl said.

"Well, my dear Blanche," said the mother, "I suppose, as Papa wants to
go, we must go; but we needn't know them in England, you know." And so,
determined to cut their new acquaintance in Bond Street, these great
folks went to eat his dinner at Brussels, and condescending to make him
pay for their pleasure, showed their dignity by making his wife
uncomfortable, and carefully excluding her from the conversation.  This
is a species of dignity in which the high-bred British female reigns
supreme.  To watch the behaviour of a fine lady to other and humbler
women, is a very good sport for a philosophical frequenter of Vanity
Fair.

This festival, on which honest George spent a great deal of money, was
the very dismallest of all the entertainments which Amelia had in her
honeymoon.  She wrote the most piteous accounts of the feast home to
her mamma:  how the Countess of Bareacres would not answer when spoken
to; how Lady Blanche stared at her with her eye-glass; and what a rage
Captain Dobbin was in at their behaviour; and how my lord, as they came
away from the feast, asked to see the bill, and pronounced it a d----
bad dinner, and d---- dear.  But though Amelia told all these stories,
and wrote home regarding her guests' rudeness, and her own
discomfiture, old Mrs. Sedley was mightily pleased nevertheless, and
talked about Emmy's friend, the Countess of Bareacres, with such
assiduity that the news how his son was entertaining peers and
peeresses actually came to Osborne's ears in the City.

Those who know the present Lieutenant-General Sir George Tufto, K.C.B.,
and have seen him, as they may on most days in the season, padded and
in stays, strutting down Pall Mall with a rickety swagger on his
high-heeled lacquered boots, leering under the bonnets of passers-by,
or riding a showy chestnut, and ogling broughams in the Parks--those
who know the present Sir George Tufto would hardly recognise the daring
Peninsular and Waterloo officer.  He has thick curling brown hair and
black eyebrows now, and his whiskers are of the deepest purple.  He was
light-haired and bald in 1815, and stouter in the person and in the
limbs, which especially have shrunk very much of late.  When he was
about seventy years of age (he is now nearly eighty), his hair, which
was very scarce and quite white, suddenly grew thick, and brown, and
curly, and his whiskers and eyebrows took their present colour.
Ill-natured people say that his chest is all wool, and that his hair,
because it never grows, is a wig.  Tom Tufto, with whose father he
quarrelled ever so many years ago, declares that Mademoiselle de
Jaisey, of the French theatre, pulled his grandpapa's hair off in the
green-room; but Tom is notoriously spiteful and jealous; and the
General's wig has nothing to do with our story.

One day, as some of our friends of the --th were sauntering in the
flower-market of Brussels, having been to see the Hotel de Ville, which
Mrs. Major O'Dowd declared was not near so large or handsome as her
fawther's mansion of Glenmalony, an officer of rank, with an orderly
behind him, rode up to the market, and descending from his horse, came
amongst the flowers, and selected the very finest bouquet which money
could buy. The beautiful bundle being tied up in a paper, the officer
remounted, giving the nosegay into the charge of his military groom,
who carried it with a grin, following his chief, who rode away in great
state and self-satisfaction.

"You should see the flowers at Glenmalony," Mrs. O'Dowd was remarking.
"Me fawther has three Scotch garners with nine helpers. We have an acre
of hot-houses, and pines as common as pays in the sayson.  Our greeps
weighs six pounds every bunch of 'em, and upon me honour and conscience
I think our magnolias is as big as taykettles."

Dobbin, who never used to "draw out" Mrs. O'Dowd as that wicked Osborne
delighted in doing (much to Amelia's terror, who implored him to spare
her), fell back in the crowd, crowing and sputtering until he reached a
safe distance, when he exploded amongst the astonished market-people
with shrieks of yelling laughter.

"Hwhat's that gawky guggling about?" said Mrs. O'Dowd.  "Is it his nose
bleedn?  He always used to say 'twas his nose bleedn, till he must have
pomped all the blood out of 'um.  An't the magnolias at Glenmalony as
big as taykettles, O'Dowd?"

"'Deed then they are, and bigger, Peggy," the Major said.  When the
conversation was interrupted in the manner stated by the arrival of the
officer who purchased the bouquet.

"Devlish fine horse--who is it?" George asked.

"You should see me brother Molloy Malony's horse, Molasses, that won
the cop at the Curragh," the Major's wife was exclaiming, and was
continuing the family history, when her husband interrupted her by
saying--

"It's General Tufto, who commands the ---- cavalry division"; adding
quietly, "he and I were both shot in the same leg at Talavera."

"Where you got your step," said George with a laugh. "General Tufto!
Then, my dear, the Crawleys are come."

Amelia's heart fell--she knew not why.  The sun did not seem to shine
so bright.  The tall old roofs and gables looked less picturesque all
of a sudden, though it was a brilliant sunset, and one of the brightest
and most beautiful days at the end of May.



Brussels

Mr. Jos had hired a pair of horses for his open carriage, with which
cattle, and the smart London vehicle, he made a very tolerable figure
in the drives about Brussels. George purchased a horse for his private
riding, and he and Captain Dobbin would often accompany the carriage in
which Jos and his sister took daily excursions of pleasure.  They went
out that day in the park for their accustomed diversion, and there,
sure enough, George's remark with regard to the arrival of Rawdon
Crawley and his wife proved to be correct.  In the midst of a little
troop of horsemen, consisting of some of the very greatest persons in
Brussels, Rebecca was seen in the prettiest and tightest of
riding-habits, mounted on a beautiful little Arab, which she rode to
perfection (having acquired the art at Queen's Crawley, where the
Baronet, Mr. Pitt, and Rawdon himself had given her many lessons), and
by the side of the gallant General Tufto.

"Sure it's the Juke himself," cried Mrs. Major O'Dowd to Jos, who began
to blush violently; "and that's Lord Uxbridge on the bay.  How elegant
he looks!  Me brother, Molloy Malony, is as like him as two pays."

Rebecca did not make for the carriage; but as soon as she perceived her
old acquaintance Amelia seated in it, acknowledged her presence by a
gracious nod and smile, and by kissing and shaking her fingers
playfully in the direction of the vehicle.  Then she resumed her
conversation with General Tufto, who asked "who the fat officer was in
the gold-laced cap?" on which Becky replied, "that he was an officer in
the East Indian service." But Rawdon Crawley rode out of the ranks of
his company, and came up and shook hands heartily with Amelia, and said
to Jos, "Well, old boy, how are you?" and stared in Mrs. O'Dowd's face
and at the black cock's feathers until she began to think she had made
a conquest of him.

George, who had been delayed behind, rode up almost immediately with
Dobbin, and they touched their caps to the august personages, among
whom Osborne at once perceived Mrs. Crawley.  He was delighted to see
Rawdon leaning over his carriage familiarly and talking to Amelia, and
met the aide-de-camp's cordial greeting with more than corresponding
warmth.  The nods between Rawdon and Dobbin were of the very faintest
specimens of politeness.

Crawley told George where they were stopping with General Tufto at the
Hotel du Parc, and George made his friend promise to come speedily to
Osborne's own residence.  "Sorry I hadn't seen you three days ago,"
George said.  "Had a dinner at the Restaurateur's--rather a nice thing.
Lord Bareacres, and the Countess, and Lady Blanche, were good enough to
dine with us--wish we'd had you." Having thus let his friend know his
claims to be a man of fashion, Osborne parted from Rawdon, who followed
the august squadron down an alley into which they cantered, while
George and Dobbin resumed their places, one on each side of Amelia's
carriage.

"How well the Juke looked," Mrs. O'Dowd remarked. "The Wellesleys and
Malonys are related; but, of course, poor I would never dream of
introjuicing myself unless his Grace thought proper to remember our
family-tie."

"He's a great soldier," Jos said, much more at ease now the great man
was gone.  "Was there ever a battle won like Salamanca?  Hey, Dobbin?
But where was it he learnt his art?  In India, my boy!  The jungle's
the school for a general, mark me that.  I knew him myself, too, Mrs.
O'Dowd:  we both of us danced the same evening with Miss Cutler,
daughter of Cutler of the Artillery, and a devilish fine girl, at
Dumdum."

The apparition of the great personages held them all in talk during the
drive; and at dinner; and until the hour came when they were all to go
to the Opera.

It was almost like Old England.  The house was filled with familiar
British faces, and those toilettes for which the British female has
long been celebrated.  Mrs. O'Dowd's was not the least splendid amongst
these, and she had a curl on her forehead, and a set of Irish diamonds
and Cairngorms, which outshone all the decorations in the house, in her
notion.  Her presence used to excruciate Osborne; but go she would upon
all parties of pleasure on which she heard her young friends were bent.
It never entered into her thought but that they must be charmed with
her company.

"She's been useful to you, my dear," George said to his wife, whom he
could leave alone with less scruple when she had this society. "But
what a comfort it is that Rebecca's come:  you will have her for a
friend, and we may get rid now of this damn'd Irishwoman."  To this
Amelia did not answer, yes or no:  and how do we know what her thoughts
were?

The coup d'oeil of the Brussels opera-house did not strike Mrs. O'Dowd
as being so fine as the theatre in Fishamble Street, Dublin, nor was
French music at all equal, in her opinion, to the melodies of her
native country. She favoured her friends with these and other opinions
in a very loud tone of voice, and tossed about a great clattering fan
she sported, with the most splendid complacency.

"Who is that wonderful woman with Amelia, Rawdon, love?" said a lady in
an opposite box (who, almost always civil to her husband in private,
was more fond than ever of him in company).

"Don't you see that creature with a yellow thing in her turban, and a
red satin gown, and a great watch?"

"Near the pretty little woman in white?" asked a middle-aged gentleman
seated by the querist's side, with orders in his button, and several
under-waistcoats, and a great, choky, white stock.

"That pretty woman in white is Amelia, General:  you are remarking all
the pretty women, you naughty man."

"Only one, begad, in the world!" said the General, delighted, and the
lady gave him a tap with a large bouquet which she had.

"Bedad it's him," said Mrs. O'Dowd; "and that's the very bokay he
bought in the Marshy aux Flures!" and when Rebecca, having caught her
friend's eye, performed the little hand-kissing operation once more,
Mrs. Major O'D., taking the compliment to herself, returned the salute
with a gracious smile, which sent that unfortunate Dobbin shrieking out
of the box again.

At the end of the act, George was out of the box in a moment, and he
was even going to pay his respects to Rebecca in her loge.  He met
Crawley in the lobby, however, where they exchanged a few sentences
upon the occurrences of the last fortnight.

"You found my cheque all right at the agent's? George said, with a
knowing air.

"All right, my boy," Rawdon answered.  "Happy to give you your revenge.
Governor come round?"

"Not yet," said George, "but he will; and you know I've some private
fortune through my mother.  Has Aunty relented?"

"Sent me twenty pound, damned old screw.  When shall we have a meet?
The General dines out on Tuesday. Can't you come Tuesday?  I say, make
Sedley cut off his moustache.  What the devil does a civilian mean with
a moustache and those infernal frogs to his coat!  By-bye. Try and come
on Tuesday"; and Rawdon was going-off with two brilliant young
gentlemen of fashion, who were, like himself, on the staff of a general
officer.

George was only half pleased to be asked to dinner on that particular
day when the General was not to dine.  "I will go in and pay my
respects to your wife," said he; at which Rawdon said, "Hm, as you
please," looking very glum, and at which the two young officers
exchanged knowing glances.  George parted from them and strutted down
the lobby to the General's box, the number of which he had carefully
counted.

"Entrez," said a clear little voice, and our friend found himself in
Rebecca's presence; who jumped up, clapped her hands together, and held
out both of them to George, so charmed was she to see him.  The
General, with the orders in his button, stared at the newcomer with a
sulky scowl, as much as to say, who the devil are you?

"My dear Captain George!" cried little Rebecca in an ecstasy.  "How
good of you to come.  The General and I were moping together tete-a-tete.
General, this is my Captain George of whom you heard me talk."

"Indeed," said the General, with a very small bow; "of what regiment is
Captain George?"

George mentioned the --th:  how he wished he could have said it was a
crack cavalry corps.

"Come home lately from the West Indies, I believe. Not seen much
service in the late war.  Quartered here, Captain George?"--the General
went on with killing haughtiness.

"Not Captain George, you stupid man; Captain Osborne," Rebecca said.
The General all the while was looking savagely from one to the other.

"Captain Osborne, indeed! Any relation to the L------ Osbornes?"

"We bear the same arms," George said, as indeed was the fact; Mr.
Osborne having consulted with a herald in Long Acre, and picked the
L------ arms out of the peerage, when he set up his carriage fifteen
years before.  The General made no reply to this announcement; but took
up his opera-glass--the double-barrelled lorgnon was not invented in
those days--and pretended to examine the house; but Rebecca saw that
his disengaged eye was working round in her direction, and shooting out
bloodshot glances at her and George.

She redoubled in cordiality.  "How is dearest Amelia? But I needn't
ask: how pretty she looks!  And who is that nice good-natured looking
creature with her--a flame of yours?  O, you wicked men! And there is
Mr. Sedley eating ice, I declare: how he seems to enjoy it!  General,
why have we not had any ices?"

"Shall I go and fetch you some?" said the General, bursting with wrath.

"Let ME go, I entreat you," George said.

"No, I will go to Amelia's box.  Dear, sweet girl!  Give me your arm,
Captain George"; and so saying, and with a nod to the General, she
tripped into the lobby.  She gave George the queerest, knowingest look,
when they were together, a look which might have been interpreted,
"Don't you see the state of affairs, and what a fool I'm making of
him?"  But he did not perceive it.  He was thinking of his own plans,
and lost in pompous admiration of his own irresistible powers of
pleasing.

The curses to which the General gave a low utterance, as soon as
Rebecca and her conqueror had quitted him, were so deep, that I am sure
no compositor would venture to print them were they written down.  They
came from the General's heart; and a wonderful thing it is to think
that the human heart is capable of generating such produce, and can
throw out, as occasion demands, such a supply of lust and fury, rage
and hatred.

Amelia's gentle eyes, too, had been fixed anxiously on the pair, whose
conduct had so chafed the jealous General; but when Rebecca entered her
box, she flew to her friend with an affectionate rapture which showed
itself, in spite of the publicity of the place; for she embraced her
dearest friend in the presence of the whole house, at least in full
view of the General's glass, now brought to bear upon the Osborne
party.  Mrs. Rawdon saluted Jos, too, with the kindliest greeting: she
admired Mrs. O'Dowd's large Cairngorm brooch and superb Irish diamonds,
and wouldn't believe that they were not from Golconda direct. She
bustled, she chattered, she turned and twisted, and smiled upon one,
and smirked on another, all in full view of the jealous opera-glass
opposite.  And when the time for the ballet came (in which there was no
dancer that went through her grimaces or performed her comedy of action
better), she skipped back to her own box, leaning on Captain Dobbin's
arm this time.  No, she would not have George's: he must stay and talk
to his dearest, best, little Amelia.

"What a humbug that woman is!" honest old Dobbin mumbled to George,
when he came back from Rebecca's box, whither he had conducted her in
perfect silence, and with a countenance as glum as an undertaker's.
"She writhes and twists about like a snake.  All the time she was here,
didn't you see, George, how she was acting at the General over the way?"

"Humbug--acting!  Hang it, she's the nicest little woman in England,"
George replied, showing his white teeth, and giving his ambrosial
whiskers a twirl.  "You ain't a man of the world, Dobbin. Dammy, look
at her now, she's talked over Tufto in no time.  Look how he's
laughing!  Gad, what a shoulder she has!  Emmy, why didn't you have a
bouquet?  Everybody has a bouquet."

"Faith, then, why didn't you BOY one?" Mrs. O'Dowd said; and both
Amelia and William Dobbin thanked her for this timely observation. But
beyond this neither of the ladies rallied.  Amelia was overpowered by
the flash and the dazzle and the fashionable talk of her worldly rival.
Even the O'Dowd was silent and subdued after Becky's brilliant
apparition, and scarcely said a word more about Glenmalony all the
evening.

"When do you intend to give up play, George, as you have promised me,
any time these hundred years?" Dobbin said to his friend a few days
after the night at the Opera.  "When do you intend to give up
sermonising?" was the other's reply.  "What the deuce, man, are you
alarmed about?  We play low; I won last night.  You don't suppose
Crawley cheats?  With fair play it comes to pretty much the same thing
at the year's end."

"But I don't think he could pay if he lost," Dobbin said; and his
advice met with the success which advice usually commands.  Osborne and
Crawley were repeatedly together now.  General Tufto dined abroad
almost constantly. George was always welcome in the apartments (very
close indeed to those of the General) which the aide-de-camp and his
wife occupied in the hotel.

Amelia's manners were such when she and George visited Crawley and his
wife at these quarters, that they had very nearly come to their first
quarrel; that is, George scolded his wife violently for her evident
unwillingness to go, and the high and mighty manner in which she
comported herself towards Mrs. Crawley, her old friend; and Amelia did
not say one single word in reply; but with her husband's eye upon her,
and Rebecca scanning her as she felt, was, if possible, more bashful
and awkward on the second visit which she paid to Mrs. Rawdon, than on
her first call.

Rebecca was doubly affectionate, of course, and would not take notice,
in the least, of her friend's coolness.  "I think Emmy has become
prouder since her father's name was in the--since Mr. Sedley's
MISFORTUNES," Rebecca said, softening the phrase charitably for
George's ear.

"Upon my word, I thought when we were at Brighton she was doing me the
honour to be jealous of me; and now I suppose she is scandalised
because Rawdon, and I, and the General live together.  Why, my dear
creature, how could we, with our means, live at all, but for a friend
to share expenses?  And do you suppose that Rawdon is not big enough to
take care of my honour?  But I'm very much obliged to Emmy, very," Mrs.
Rawdon said.

"Pooh, jealousy!" answered George, "all women are jealous."

"And all men too.  Weren't you jealous of General Tufto, and the
General of you, on the night of the Opera? Why, he was ready to eat me
for going with you to visit that foolish little wife of yours; as if I
care a pin for either of you," Crawley's wife said, with a pert toss of
her head.  "Will you dine here?  The dragon dines with the
Commander-in-Chief.  Great news is stirring.  They say the French have
crossed the frontier.  We shall have a quiet dinner."

George accepted the invitation, although his wife was a little ailing.
They were now not quite six weeks married. Another woman was laughing
or sneering at her expense, and he not angry.  He was not even angry
with himself, this good-natured fellow.  It is a shame, he owned to
himself; but hang it, if a pretty woman WILL throw herself in your way,
why, what can a fellow do, you know?  I AM rather free about women, he
had often said, smiling and nodding knowingly to Stubble and Spooney,
and other comrades of the mess-table; and they rather respected him
than otherwise for this prowess.  Next to conquering in war, conquering
in love has been a source of pride, time out of mind, amongst men in
Vanity Fair, or how should schoolboys brag of their amours, or Don Juan
be popular?

So Mr. Osborne, having a firm conviction in his own mind that he was a
woman-killer and destined to conquer, did not run counter to his fate,
but yielded himself up to it quite complacently.  And as Emmy did not
say much or plague him with her jealousy, but merely became unhappy and
pined over it miserably in secret, he chose to fancy that she was not
suspicious of what all his acquaintance were perfectly aware--namely,
that he was carrying on a desperate flirtation with Mrs. Crawley.  He
rode with her whenever she was free.  He pretended regimental business
to Amelia (by which falsehood she was not in the least deceived), and
consigning his wife to solitude or her brother's society, passed his
evenings in the Crawleys' company; losing money to the husband and
flattering himself that the wife was dying of love for him. It is very
likely that this worthy couple never absolutely conspired and agreed
together in so many words:  the one to cajole the young gentleman,
whilst the other won his money at cards: but they understood each other
perfectly well, and Rawdon let Osborne come and go with entire good
humour.

George was so occupied with his new acquaintances that he and William
Dobbin were by no means so much together as formerly. George avoided
him in public and in the regiment, and, as we see, did not like those
sermons which his senior was disposed to inflict upon him. If some
parts of his conduct made Captain Dobbin exceedingly grave and cool; of
what use was it to tell George that, though his whiskers were large,
and his own opinion of his knowingness great, he was as green as a
schoolboy? that Rawdon was making a victim of him as he had done of
many before, and as soon as he had used him would fling him off with
scorn?  He would not listen:  and so, as Dobbin, upon those days when
he visited the Osborne house, seldom had the advantage of meeting his
old friend, much painful and unavailing talk between them was spared.
Our friend George was in the full career of the pleasures of Vanity
Fair.

There never was, since the days of Darius, such a brilliant train of
camp-followers as hung round the Duke of Wellington's army in the Low
Countries, in 1815; and led it dancing and feasting, as it were, up to
the very brink of battle.  A certain ball which a noble Duchess gave at
Brussels on the 15th of June in the above-named year is historical.
All Brussels had been in a state of excitement about it, and I have
heard from ladies who were in that town at the period, that the talk
and interest of persons of their own sex regarding the ball was much
greater even than in respect of the enemy in their front. The
struggles, intrigues, and prayers to get tickets were such as only
English ladies will employ, in order to gain admission to the society
of the great of their own nation.

Jos and Mrs. O'Dowd, who were panting to be asked, strove in vain to
procure tickets; but others of our friends were more lucky.  For
instance, through the interest of my Lord Bareacres, and as a set-off
for the dinner at the restaurateur's, George got a card for Captain and
Mrs. Osborne; which circumstance greatly elated him. Dobbin, who was a
friend of the General commanding the division in which their regiment
was, came laughing one day to Mrs. Osborne, and displayed a similar
invitation, which made Jos envious, and George wonder how the deuce he
should be getting into society.  Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon, finally, were of
course invited; as became the friends of a General commanding a cavalry
brigade.

On the appointed night, George, having commanded new dresses and
ornaments of all sorts for Amelia, drove to the famous ball, where his
wife did not know a single soul.  After looking about for Lady
Bareacres, who cut him, thinking the card was quite enough--and after
placing Amelia on a bench, he left her to her own cogitations there,
thinking, on his own part, that he had behaved very handsomely in
getting her new clothes, and bringing her to the ball, where she was
free to amuse herself as she liked.  Her thoughts were not of the
pleasantest, and nobody except honest Dobbin came to disturb them.

Whilst her appearance was an utter failure (as her husband felt with a
sort of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's debut was, on the contrary, very
brilliant.  She arrived very late.  Her face was radiant; her dress
perfection.  In the midst of the great persons assembled, and the
eye-glasses directed to her, Rebecca seemed to be as cool and collected
as when she used to marshal Miss Pinkerton's little girls to church.
Numbers of the men she knew already, and the dandies thronged round
her.  As for the ladies, it was whispered among them that Rawdon had
run away with her from out of a convent, and that she was a relation of
the Montmorency family.  She spoke French so perfectly that there might
be some truth in this report, and it was agreed that her manners were
fine, and her air distingue.  Fifty would-be partners thronged round
her at once, and pressed to have the honour to dance with her.  But she
said she was engaged, and only going to dance very little; and made her
way at once to the place where Emmy sate quite unnoticed, and dismally
unhappy.  And so, to finish the poor child at once, Mrs. Rawdon ran and
greeted affectionately her dearest Amelia, and began forthwith to
patronise her. She found fault with her friend's dress, and her
hairdresser, and wondered how she could be so chaussee, and vowed that
she must send her corsetiere the next morning.  She vowed that it was a
delightful ball; that there was everybody that every one knew, and only
a VERY few nobodies in the whole room.  It is a fact, that in a
fortnight, and after three dinners in general society, this young woman
had got up the genteel jargon so well, that a native could not speak it
better; and it was only from her French being so good, that you could
know she was not a born woman of fashion.

George, who had left Emmy on her bench on entering the ball-room, very
soon found his way back when Rebecca was by her dear friend's side.
Becky was just lecturing Mrs. Osborne upon the follies which her
husband was committing.  "For God's sake, stop him from gambling, my
dear," she said, "or he will ruin himself. He and Rawdon are playing at
cards every night, and you know he is very poor, and Rawdon will win
every shilling from him if he does not take care.  Why don't you
prevent him, you little careless creature? Why don't you come to us of
an evening, instead of moping at home with that Captain Dobbin?  I dare
say he is tres aimable; but how could one love a man with feet of such
size? Your husband's feet are darlings--Here he comes.  Where have you
been, wretch?  Here is Emmy crying her eyes out for you.  Are you
coming to fetch me for the quadrille?" And she left her bouquet and
shawl by Amelia's side, and tripped off with George to dance.  Women
only know how to wound so. There is a poison on the tips of their
little shafts, which stings a thousand times more than a man's blunter
weapon.  Our poor Emmy, who had never hated, never sneered all her
life, was powerless in the hands of her remorseless little enemy.

George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice--how many times Amelia
scarcely knew.  She sat quite unnoticed in her corner, except when
Rawdon came up with some words of clumsy conversation:  and later in
the evening, when Captain Dobbin made so bold as to bring her
refreshments and sit beside her.  He did not like to ask her why she
was so sad; but as a pretext for the tears which were filling in her
eyes, she told him that Mrs. Crawley had alarmed her by telling her
that George would go on playing.

"It is curious, when a man is bent upon play, by what clumsy rogues he
will allow himself to be cheated," Dobbin said; and Emmy said,
"Indeed." She was thinking of something else.  It was not the loss of
the money that grieved her.

At last George came back for Rebecca's shawl and flowers.  She was
going away.  She did not even condescend to come back and say good-bye
to Amelia.  The poor girl let her husband come and go without saying a
word, and her head fell on her breast.  Dobbin had been called away,
and was whispering deep in conversation with the General of the
division, his friend, and had not seen this last parting.  George went
away then with the bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there lay
a note, coiled like a snake among the flowers.  Rebecca's eye caught it
at once.  She had been used to deal with notes in early life.  She put
out her hand and took the nosegay.  He saw by her eyes as they met,
that she was aware what she should find there.  Her husband hurried her
away, still too intent upon his own thoughts, seemingly, to take note
of any marks of recognition which might pass between his friend and his
wife. These were, however, but trifling.  Rebecca gave George her hand
with one of her usual quick knowing glances, and made a curtsey and
walked away.  George bowed over the hand, said nothing in reply to a
remark of Crawley's, did not hear it even, his brain was so throbbing
with triumph and excitement, and allowed them to go away without a word.

His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet-scene. It was quite
natural that George should come at Rebecca's request to get her her
scarf and flowers:  it was no more than he had done twenty times before
in the course of the last few days; but now it was too much for her.
"William," she said, suddenly clinging to Dobbin, who was near her,
"you've always been very kind to me--I'm--I'm not well.  Take me home."
She did not know she called him by his Christian name, as George was
accustomed to do.  He went away with her quickly.  Her lodgings were
hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without, where everything
seemed to be more astir than even in the ball-room within.

George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife up on his
return from the parties which he frequented:  so she went straight to
bed now; but although she did not sleep, and although the din and
clatter, and the galloping of horsemen were incessant, she never heard
any of these noises, having quite other disturbances to keep her awake.

Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play-table, and
began to bet frantically.  He won repeatedly. "Everything succeeds with
me to-night," he said. But his luck at play even did not cure him of
his restlessness, and he started up after awhile, pocketing his
winnings, and went to a buffet, where he drank off many bumpers of wine.

Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laughing loudly and
wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been to the card-tables to
look there for his friend.  Dobbin looked as pale and grave as his
comrade was flushed and jovial.

"Hullo, Dob!  Come and drink, old Dob!  The Duke's wine is famous. Give
me some more, you sir"; and he held out a trembling glass for the
liquor.

"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely; "don't drink."

"Drink!  there's nothing like it.  Drink yourself, and light up your
lantern jaws, old boy.  Here's to you."

Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at which George, giving
a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass, clapped it on the
table, and walked away speedily on his friend's arm.  "The enemy has
passed the Sambre," William said, "and our left is already engaged.
Come away.  We are to march in three hours."

Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at the news so
long looked for, so sudden when it came.  What were love and intrigue
now?  He thought about a thousand things but these in his rapid walk to
his quarters--his past life and future chances--the fate which might be
before him--the wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be
about to part.  Oh, how he wished that night's work undone!  and that
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the tender
and guileless being by whose love he had set such little store!

He thought over his brief married life.  In those few weeks he had
frightfully dissipated his little capital.  How wild and reckless he
had been!  Should any mischance befall him:  what was then left for
her?  How unworthy he was of her.  Why had he married her?  He was not
fit for marriage.  Why had he disobeyed his father, who had been always
so generous to him?  Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish
regret filled his heart.  He sate down and wrote to his father,
remembering what he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight
a duel. Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell
letter.  He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how he
had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kindnesses which
the stern old man had done him.

He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she lay quiet, and
her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that she was asleep.  On
arriving at his quarters from the ball, he had found his regimental
servant already making preparations for his departure:  the man had
understood his signal to be still, and these arrangements were very
quickly and silently made.  Should he go in and wake Amelia, he
thought, or leave a note for her brother to break the news of departure
to her?  He went in to look at her once again.

She had been awake when he first entered her room, but had kept her
eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should not seem to reproach
him.  But when he had returned, so soon after herself, too, this timid
little heart had felt more at ease, and turning towards him as he stept
softly out of the room, she had fallen into a light sleep.  George came
in and looked at her again, entering still more softly.  By the pale
night-lamp he could see her sweet, pale face--the purple eyelids were
fringed and closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside of
the coverlet.  Good God!  how pure she was; how gentle, how tender, and
how friendless!  and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with crime!
Heart-stained, and shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's foot, and
looked at the sleeping girl.  How dared he--who was he, to pray for one
so spotless!  God bless her!  God bless her!  He came to the bedside,
and looked at the hand, the little soft hand, lying asleep; and he bent
over the pillow noiselessly towards the gentle pale face.

Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped down.  "I am
awake, George," the poor child said, with a sob fit to break the little
heart that nestled so closely by his own.  She was awake, poor soul,
and to what?  At that moment a bugle from the Place of Arms began
sounding clearly, and was taken up through the town; and amidst the
drums of the infantry, and the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole
city awoke.

 This installment begins with a description of the style of living practiced by George and Amelia. When Amelia wants to visit her mother, George goes to the theater. Here Thackeray interposes an essay on mothers. Amelia, married nine days, feels apprehensive rather than happy. "Something which, when obtained, brought doubt and sadness rather than pleasure . . . harmless lost wanderer in the great struggling crowds of Vanity Fair." George gets his money from his father's solicitor; the clerks there prophesy no good end for him. Certain that the outcome of the war will be good, George sends Amelia out to buy dresses and gimcracks. Dobbin's fine military appearance causes Jos to feel friendly, and George's regiment thinks more highly of him after meeting his attractive wife. Mrs. O'Dowd takes Amelia under her protection and begins to connive how she can marry Glorvina to Jos. As usual she talks about Ireland. The regiment departs for Belgium, Jos and the ladies following in grand style. Jos' pseudo-military appearance makes a great impression, the impression he desires. The gaiety of Brussels with its gambling, feasting, and dancing, entertains Amelia until Crawley's regiment arrives. For reasons she cannot define, Amelia's heart fails. With the coming of the Rawdon Crawleys, the banterings and courtesies so often a prelude to love begin between George and Becky. Though Amelia does not understand exactly why, she is unhappy. Meanwhile, Becky also plays up to General Tufto. Dobbin tries to persuade George to quit gambling. At a brilliant ball, George, enamored of Becky, leaves a note in her bouquet. Wretched and depressed, Amelia has gone home to bed. That night the marching orders come. George, overcome by remorse, wishes he hadn't flirted with Becky, hadn't wounded Amelia, hadn't spent money so recklessly, nor quarreled with his father. In shame and remorse, he embraces Amelia.

