Chapter LIX: The Old Piano

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　The Major's visit left old John Sedley in a great state ofagitation and excitement. His daughter could not inducehim to settle down to his customary occupations oramusements that night. He passed the evening fumblingamongst his boxes and desks, untying his papers withtrembling hands, and sorting and arranging them againstJos's arrival. He had them in the greatest order--histapes and his files, his receipts, and his letters withlawyers and correspondents; the documents relative tothe wine project (which failed from a most unaccountableaccident, after commencing with the most splendidprospects), the coal project (which only a want of capitalprevented from becoming the most successful schemeever put before the public), the patent saw-mills andsawdust consolidation project, &c., &c. All night, until avery late hour, he passed in the preparation of thesedocuments, trembling about from one room to another,with a quivering candle and shaky hands. Here's the winepapers, here's the sawdust, here's the coals; here's myletters to Calcutta and Madras, and replies from MajorDobbin, C.B., and Mr. Joseph Sedley to the same. "Heshall find no irregularity about me, Emmy," the oldgentleman said.

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

　　"You don't know anything about business, my dear,"answered the sire, shaking his head with an importantair. And it must be confessed that on this point Emmywas very ignorant, and that is a pity some people are soknowing. All these twopenny documents arranged on aside table, old Sedley covered them carefully over witha clean bandanna handkerchief (one out of MajorDobbin's lot) and enjoined the maid and landlady of thehouse, in the most solemn way, not to disturb thosepapers, which were arranged for the arrival of Mr. JosephSedley the next morning, "Mr. Joseph Sedley of theHonourable East India Company's Bengal Civil Service."

　　Amelia found him up very early the next morning,more eager, more hectic, and more shaky than ever. "Ididn't sleep much, Emmy, my dear," he said. "I wasthinking of my poor Bessy. I wish she was alive, to ridein Jos's carriage once again. She kept her own andbecame it very well." And his eyes filled with tears, whichtrickled down his furrowed old face. Amelia wiped themaway, and smilingly kissed him, and tied the old man'sneckcloth in a smart bow, and put his brooch into hisbest shirt frill, in which, in his Sunday suit of mourning,he sat from six o'clock in the morning awaiting thearrival of his son.

　　However, when the postman made his appearance, thelittle party were put out of suspense by the receipt of aletter from Jos to his sister, who announced that he felta little fatigued after his voyage, and should not be ableto move on that day, but that he would leave Southamptonearly the next morning and be with his father andmother at evening. Amelia, as she read out the letter toher father, paused over the latter word; her brother, itwas clear, did not know what had happened in the family.Nor could he, for the fact is that, though the Majorrightly suspected that his travelling companion neverwould be got into motion in so short a space as twenty-four hours, and would find some excuse for delaying, yetDobbin had not written to Jos to inform him of thecalamity which had befallen the Sedley family, beingoccupied in talking with Amelia until long after post-hour.

　　There are some splendid tailors' shops in the HighStreet of Southampton, in the fine plate-glass windowsof which hang gorgeous waistcoats of all sorts, of silkand velvet, and gold and crimson, and pictures of thelast new fashions, in which those wonderful gentlemenwith quizzing glasses, and holding on to little boys withthe exceeding large eyes and curly hair, ogle ladies inriding habits prancing by the Statue of Achilles at ApsleyHouse. Jos, although provided with some of the mostsplendid vests that Calcutta could furnish, thought hecould not go to town until he was supplied with one ortwo of these garments, and selected a crimson satin,embroidered with gold butterflies, and a black and redvelvet tartan with white stripes and a rolling collar, withwhich, and a rich blue satin stock and a gold pin,consisting of a five-barred gate with a horseman in pinkenamel jumping over it, he thought he might make hisentry into London with some dignity. For Jos's formershyness and blundering blushing timidity had given wayto a more candid and courageous self-assertion of hisworth. "I don't care about owning it," Waterloo Sedleywould say to his friends, "I am a dressy man"; andthough rather uneasy if the ladies looked at him at theGovernment House balls, and though he blushed andturned away alarmed under their glances, it was chieflyfrom a dread lest they should make love to him that heavoided them, being averse to marriage altogether. Butthere was no such swell in Calcutta as Waterloo Sedley,I have heard say, and he had the handsomest turn-out,gave the best bachelor dinners, and had the finest platein the whole place.

　　To make these waistcoats for a man of his size anddignity took at least a day, part of which he employed inhiring a servant to wait upon him and his native and ininstructing the agent who cleared his baggage, his boxes,his books, which he never read, his chests of mangoes,chutney, and curry-powders, his shawls for presents topeople whom he didn't know as yet, and the rest of hisPersicos apparatus.

　　At length, he drove leisurely to London on the thirdday and in the new waistcoat, the native, with chatteringteeth, shuddering in a shawl on the box by the side of thenew European servant; Jos puffing his pipe at intervalswithin and looking so majestic that the little boys criedHooray, and many people thought he must be aGovernor-General. He, I promise, did not decline theobsequious invitation of the landlords to alight and refreshhimself in the neat country towns. Having partaken of acopious breakfast, with fish, and rice, and hard eggs, atSouthampton, he had so far rallied at Winchester as tothink a glass of sherry necessary. At Alton he steppedout of the carriage at his servant's request and imbibedsome of the ale for which the place is famous. At Farnhamhe stopped to view the Bishop's Castle and to partakeof a light dinner of stewed eels, veal cutlets, andFrench beans, with a bottle of claret. He was cold overBagshot Heath, where the native chattered more andmore, and Jos Sahib took some brandy-and-water; infact, when he drove into town he was as full of wine,beer, meat, pickles, cherry-brandy, and tobacco as thesteward's cabin of a steam-packet. It was evening whenhis carriage thundered up to the little door in Brompton,whither the affectionate fellow drove first, and beforehieing to the apartments secured for him by Mr. Dobbinat the Slaughters'.

　　All the faces in the street were in the windows; thelittle maidservant flew to the wicket-gate; the MesdamesClapp looked out from the casement of the ornamentedkitchen; Emmy, in a great flutter, was in the passageamong the hats and coats; and old Sedley in the parlourinside, shaking all over. Jos descended from the post-chaise and down the creaking swaying steps in awfulstate, supported by the new valet from Southampton andthe shuddering native, whose brown face was now lividwith cold and of the colour of a turkey's gizzard. Hecreated an immense sensation in the passage presently,where Mrs. and Miss Clapp, coming perhaps to listenat the parlour door, found Loll Jewab shaking upon thehall-bench under the coats, moaning in a strange piteousway, and showing his yellow eyeballs and white teeth.

　　For, you see, we have adroitly shut the door upon themeeting between Jos and the old father and the poor littlegentle sister inside. The old man was very much affected;so, of course, was his daughter; nor was Jos withoutfeeling. In that long absence of ten years, the most selfishwill think about home and early ties. Distance sanctifiesboth. Long brooding over those lost pleasures exaggeratestheir charm and sweetness. Jos was unaffectedly glad tosee and shake the hand of his father, between whomand himself there had been a coolness--glad to see hislittle sister, whom he remembered so pretty and smiling,and pained at the alteration which time, grief, andmisfortune had made in the shattered old man. Emmy hadcome out to the door in her black clothes and whisperedto him of her mother's death, and not to speak of it totheir father. There was no need of this caution, for theelder Sedley himself began immediately to speak of theevent, and prattled about it, and wept over it plenteously.It shocked the Indian not a little and made him think ofhimself less than the poor fellow was accustomed to do.

　　The result of the interview must have been verysatisfactory, for when Jos had reascended his post-chaiseand had driven away to his hotel, Emmy embraced her fathertenderly, appealing to him with an air of triumph, andasking the old man whether she did not always say thather brother had a good heart?

　　Indeed, Joseph Sedley, affected by the humble positionin which he found his relations, and in the expansivenessand overflowing of heart occasioned by the first meeting,declared that they should never suffer want ordiscomfort any more, that he was at home for some timeat any rate, during which his house and everything hehad should be theirs: and that Amelia would look verypretty at the head of his table--until she would acceptone of her own.

　　She shook her head sadly and had, as usual, recourseto the waterworks. She knew what he meant. She andher young confidante, Miss Mary, had talked over thematter most fully, the very night of the Major's visit,beyond which time the impetuous Polly could not refrainfrom talking of the discovery which she had made, anddescribing the start and tremor of joy by which MajorDobbin betrayed himself when Mr. Binny passed with hisbride and the Major learned that he had no longer arival to fear. "Didn't you see how he shook all overwhen you asked if he was married and he said, 'Who toldyou those lies?' Oh, M'am," Polly said, "he never kept hiseyes off you, and I'm sure he's grown grey athinking ofyou."

　　But Amelia, looking up at her bed, over which hungthe portraits of her husband and son, told her youngprotegee never, never, to speak on that subject again;that Major Dobbin had been her husband's dearest friendand her own and George's most kind and affectionateguardian; that she loved him as a brother--but that awoman who had been married to such an angel as that,and she pointed to the wall, could never think of anyother union. Poor Polly sighed: she thought what sheshould do if young Mr. Tomkins, at the surgery, whoalways looked at her so at church, and who, by thosemere aggressive glances had put her timorous little heartinto such a flutter that she was ready to surrender atonce,--what she should do if he were to die? She knewhe was consumptive, his cheeks were so red and he wasso uncommon thin in the waist.

　　Not that Emmy, being made aware of the honestMajor's passion, rebuffed him in any way, or feltdispleased with him. Such an attachment from so true andloyal a gentleman could make no woman angry.Desdemona was not angry with Cassio, though there isvery little doubt she saw the Lieutenant's partiality forher (and I for my part believe that many more thingstook place in that sad affair than the worthy Moorishofficer ever knew of); why, Miranda was even very kindto Caliban, and we may be pretty sure for the samereason. Not that she would encourage him in the least--the poor uncouth monster--of course not. No morewould Emmy by any means encourage her admirer, theMajor. She would give him that friendly regard, whichso much excellence and fidelity merited; she would treathim with perfect cordiality and frankness until he madehis proposals, and then it would be time enough for herto speak and to put an end to hopes which never could berealized.

　　She slept, therefore, very soundly that evening, afterthe conversation with Miss Polly, and was more thanordinarily happy, in spite of Jos's delaying. "I am gladhe is not going to marry that Miss O'Dowd," she thought."Colonel O'Dowd never could have a sister fit for suchan accomplished man as Major William." Who was thereamongst her little circle who would make him a goodwife? Not Miss Binny, she was too old and ill-tempered;Miss Osborne? too old too. Little Polly was too young.Mrs. Osborne could not find anybody to suit the Majorbefore she went to sleep.

　　The same morning brought Major Dobbin a letter to theSlaughters' Coffee-house from his friend at Southampton,begging dear Dob to excuse Jos for being in a rage whenawakened the day before (he had a confounded headache,and was just in his first sleep), and entreating Dob toengage comfortable rooms at the Slaughters' for Mr. Sedleyand his servants. The Major had become necessary toJos during the voyage. He was attached to him, and hungupon him. The other passengers were away to London.Young Ricketts and little Chaffers went away on thecoach that day--Ricketts on the box, and taking thereins from Botley; the Doctor was off to his family atPortsea; Bragg gone to town to his co-partners; and thefirst mate busy in the unloading of the Ramchunder. Mr.Joe was very lonely at Southampton, and got the landlordof the George to take a glass of wine with him thatday, at the very hour at which Major Dobbin wasseated at the table of his father, Sir William, where hissister found out (for it was impossible for the Major totell fibs) that he had been to see Mrs. George Osborne.

　　Jos was so comfortably situated in St. Martin's Lane, hecould enjoy his hookah there with such perfect ease, andcould swagger down to the theatres, when minded, soagreeably, that, perhaps, he would have remainedaltogether at the Slaughters' had not his friend, the Major,been at his elbow. That gentleman would not let theBengalee rest until he had executed his promise of havinga home for Amelia and his father. Jos was a soft fellowin anybody's hands, Dobbin most active in anybody'sconcerns but his own; the civilian was, therefore, an easyvictim to the guileless arts of this good-natured diplomatistand was ready to do, to purchase, hire, or relinquishwhatever his friend thought fit. Loll Jewab, of whom theboys about St. Martin's Lane used to make cruel funwhenever he showed his dusky countenance in the street, wassent back to Calcutta in the Lady Kicklebury EastIndiaman, in which Sir William Dobbin had a share, havingpreviously taught Jos's European the art of preparingcurries, pilaus, and pipes. It was a matter of great delightand occupation to Jos to superintend the building of asmart chariot which he and the Major ordered in theneighbouring Long Acre: and a pair of handsome horseswere jobbed, with which Jos drove about in state in thepark, or to call upon his Indian friends. Amelia was notseldom by his side on these excursions, when also MajorDobbin would be seen in the back seat of the carriage.At other times old Sedley and his daughter tookadvantage of it, and Miss Clapp, who frequentlyaccompanied her friend, had great pleasure in being recognizedas she sat in the carriage, dressed in the famous yellowshawl, by the young gentleman at the surgery, whose facemight commonly be seen over the window-blinds as shepassed.

　　Shortly after Jos's first appearance at Brompton, adismal scene, indeed, took place at that humble cottage atwhich the Sedleys had passed the last ten years of theirlife. Jos's carriage (the temporary one, not the chariotunder construction) arrived one day and carried off oldSedley and his daughter--to return no more. The tearsthat were shed by the landlady and the landlady'sdaughter at that event were as genuine tears of sorrow as anythat have been outpoured in the course of this history.In their long acquaintanceship and intimacy they couldnot recall a harsh word that had been uttered by AmeliaShe had been all sweetness and kindness, alwaysthankful, always gentle, even when Mrs. Clapp lost her owntemper and pressed for the rent. When the kind creaturewas going away for good and all, the landlady reproachedherself bitterly for ever having used a rough expression toher--how she wept, as they stuck up with wafers on thewindow, a paper notifying that the little rooms so longoccupied were to let! They never would have such lodgersagain, that was quite clear. After-life proved the truth ofthis melancholy prophecy, and Mrs. Clapp revengedherself for the deterioration of mankind by levying the mostsavage contributions upon the tea-caddies and legs ofmutton of her locataires. Most of them scolded andgrumbled; some of them did not pay; none of them stayed.The landlady might well regret those old, old friends, whohad left her.

　　As for Miss Mary, her sorrow at Amelia's departurewas such as I shall not attempt to depict. From childhoodupwards she had been with her daily and had attachedherself so passionately to that dear good lady that whenthe grand barouche came to carry her off into splendour,she fainted in the arms of her friend, who was indeedscarcely less affected than the good-natured girl. Amelialoved her like a daughter. During eleven years the girl hadbeen her constant friend and associate. The separation wasa very painful one indeed to her. But it was of coursearranged that Mary was to come and stay often at thegrand new house whither Mrs. Osborne was going, andwhere Mary was sure she would never be so happy asshe had been in their humble cot, as Miss Clapp called it,in the language of the novels which she loved.

　　Let us hope she was wrong in her judgement. PoorEmmy's days of happiness had been very few in thathumble cot. A gloomy Fate had oppressed her there. Shenever liked to come back to the house after she had leftit, or to face the landlady who had tyrannized over herwhen ill-humoured and unpaid, or when pleased hadtreated her with a coarse familiarity scarcely less odious.Her servility and fulsome compliments when Emmy wasin prosperity were not more to that lady's liking. Shecast about notes of admiration all over the new house,extolling every article of furniture or ornament; shefingered Mrs. Osborne's dresses and calculated their price.Nothing could be too good for that sweet lady, shevowed and protested. But in the vulgar sycophant whonow paid court to her, Emmy always remembered thecoarse tyrant who had made her miserable many a time,to whom she had been forced to put up petitions fortime, when the rent was overdue; who cried out at herextravagance if she bought delicacies for her ailing motheror father; who had seen her humble and trampled uponher.

　　Nobody ever heard of these griefs, which had beenpart of our poor little woman's lot in life. She kept themsecret from her father, whose improvidence was the causeof much of her misery. She had to bear all the blame ofhis misdoings, and indeed was so utterly gentle andhumble as to be made by nature for a victim.

　　I hope she is not to suffer much more of that hardusage. And, as in all griefs there is said to be someconsolation, I may mention that poor Mary, when left at herfriend's departure in a hysterical condition, was placedunder the medical treatment of the young fellow fromthe surgery, under whose care she rallied after a shortperiod. Emmy, when she went away from Brompton,endowed Mary with every article of furniture that the housecontained, only taking away her pictures (the twopictures over the bed) and her piano--that little old pianowhich had now passed into a plaintive jingling old age,but which she loved for reasons of her own. She was achild when first she played on it, and her parents gave ither. It had been given to her again since, as the readermay 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 hewas superintending the arrangements of Jos's new house--which the Major insisted should be very handsome andcomfortable--the cart arrived from Brompton, bringingthe trunks and bandboxes of the emigrants from thatvillage, and with them the old piano. Amelia would have itup in her sitting-room, a neat little apartment on thesecond floor, adjoining her father's chamber, and wherethe old gentleman sat commonly of evenings.

　　When the men appeared then bearing this old music-box, and Amelia gave orders that it should be placedin the chamber aforesaid, Dobbin was quite elated. "I'mglad 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 it himself, though he never saidanything about it, it never entered into his head to supposethat Emmy should think anybody else was the purchaser,and as a matter of course he fancied that she knew thegift came from him. "Do you, Amelia?" he said; andthe question, the great question of all, was tremblingon his lips, when Emmy replied--

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

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

　　Emmy did not note the circumstance at the time, nortake immediate heed of the very dismal expression whichhonest Dobbin's countenance assumed, but she thoughtof it afterwards. And then it struck her, with inexpressiblepain and mortification too, that it was William whowas the giver of the piano, and not George, as she hadfancied. It was not George's gift; the only one which shehad received from her lover, as she thought--the thingshe had cherished beyond all others--her dearest relicand prize. She had spoken to it about George; playedhis favourite airs upon it; sat for long evening hours,touching, to the best of her simple art, melancholyharmonies on the keys, and weeping over them in silence.It was not George's relic. It was valueless now. The nexttime that old Sedley asked her to play, she said it wasshockingly out of tune, that she had a headache, thatshe couldn't play.

　　Then, according to her custom, she rebuked herselffor her pettishness and ingratitude and determined tomake a reparation to honest William for the slight shehad not expressed to him, but had felt for his piano.A few days afterwards, as they were seated in thedrawing-room, where Jos had fallen asleep with great comfortafter dinner, Amelia said with rather a faltering voiceto Major Dobbin--

　　"I have to beg your pardon for something."

　　"About what?" said he.

　　"About--about that little square piano. I never thankedyou for it when you gave it me, many, many years ago,before I was married. I thought somebody else had givenit. Thank you, William." She held out her hand, but thepoor little woman's heart was bleeding; and as for hereyes, of course they were at their work.

　　But William could hold no more. "Amelia, Amelia,"he said, "I did buy it for you. I loved you then as Ido now. I must tell you. I think I loved you from thefirst minute that I saw you, when George brought me toyour house, to show me the Amelia whom he wasengaged to. You were but a girl, in white, with largeringlets; you came down singing--do you remember?--and we went to Vauxhall. Since then I have thought ofbut one woman in the world, and that was you. Ithink there is no hour in the day has passed for twelveyears that I haven't thought of you. I came to tell youthis before I went to India, but you did not care, andI hadn't the heart to speak. You did not care whetherI stayed or went."

　　"I was very ungrateful," Amelia said.

　　"No, only indifferent," Dobbin continued desperately."I have nothing to make a woman to be otherwise. Iknow what you are feeling now. You are hurt in yourheart at the discovery about the piano, and that it camefrom me and not from George. I forgot, or I shouldnever have spoken of it so. It is for me to ask yourpardon for being a fool for a moment, and thinkingthat years of constancy and devotion might have pleadedwith you."

　　"It is you who are cruel now," Amelia said with somespirit. "George is my husband, here and in heaven. Howcould I love any other but him? I am his now as whenyou first saw me, dear William. It was he who told mehow good and generous you were, and who taught meto love you as a brother. Have you not been everythingto me and my boy? Our dearest, truest, kindest friendand protector? Had you come a few months soonerperhaps you might have spared me that--that dreadfulparting. Oh, it nearly killed me, William--but you didn'tcome, though I wished and prayed for you to come,and they took him too away from me. Isn't he a nobleboy, William? Be his friend still and mine"--and here hervoice broke, and she hid her face on his shoulder.

　　The Major folded his arms round her, holding her tohim as if she was a child, and kissed her head. "I willnot change, dear Amelia," he said. "I ask for no morethan your love. I think I would not have it otherwise.Only let me stay near you and see you often."

　　"Yes, often," Amelia said. And so William was atliberty to look and long--as the poor boy at schoolwho has no money may sigh after the contents of thetart-woman's tray.