She lived upon the recollections of that happy evening
for many days afterwards, remembering his words; his
looks; the song he sang; his attitude, as he leant
over her or looked at her from a distance. As
it seemed to her, no night ever passed so quickly at
Mr. Osborne’s house before; and for once this
young person was almost provoked to be angry by the
premature arrival of Mr. Sambo with her shawl.
George came and took a tender leave of her the next
morning; and then hurried off to the City, where he
visited Mr. Chopper, his father’s head man,
and received from that gentleman a document which
he exchanged at Hulker & Bullock’s for a whole
pocketful of money. As George entered the house,
old John Sedley was passing out of the banker’s
parlour, looking very dismal. But his godson
was much too elated to mark the worthy stockbroker’s
depression, or the dreary eyes which the kind old
gentleman cast upon him. Young Bullock did not
come grinning out of the parlour with him as had been
his wont in former years.
And as the swinging doors of Hulker, Bullock & Co.
closed upon Mr. Sedley, Mr. Quill, the cashier (whose
benevolent occupation it is to hand out crisp bank-notes
from a drawer and dispense sovereigns out of a copper
shovel), winked at Mr. Driver, the clerk at the desk
on his right. Mr. Driver winked again.
“No go,” Mr. D. whispered.
“Not at no price,” Mr. Q. said.
“Mr. George Osborne, sir, how will you take
it?” George crammed eagerly a quantity of notes
into his pockets, and paid Dobbin fifty pounds that
very evening at mess.
That very evening Amelia wrote him the tenderest of
long letters. Her heart was overflowing with
tenderness, but it still foreboded evil. What
was the cause of Mr. Osborne’s dark looks? she
asked. Had any difference arisen between him
and her papa? Her poor papa returned so melancholy
from the City, that all were alarmed about him at
home—in fine, there were four pages of loves
and fears and hopes and forebodings.
“Poor little Emmy—dear little Emmy.
How fond she is of me,” George said, as he
perused the missive—“and Gad, what
a headache that mixed punch has given me!” Poor
little Emmy, indeed.
CHAPTER XIV
Miss Crawley at Home
About this time there drove up to an exceedingly snug
and well-appointed house in Park Lane, a travelling
chariot with a lozenge on the panels, a discontented
female in a green veil and crimped curls on the rumble,
and a large and confidential man on the box.
It was the equipage of our friend Miss Crawley, returning
from Hants. The carriage windows were shut;
the fat spaniel, whose head and tongue ordinarily
lolled out of one of them, reposed on the lap of the
discontented female. When the vehicle stopped,
a large round bundle of shawls was taken out of the
carriage by the aid of various domestics and a young
lady who accompanied the heap of cloaks. That
