It was June, and, by consequence, high season in London; Jos, who read the incomparable Galignani (the exile‘s best friend) through every day, used to favour the ladies with extracts from his paper during their breakfast. Every week in this paper there is a full account of military movements, in which Jos, as a man who had seen service, was especially interested. On one occasion he read out:—
‘Arrival OF THE—TH REGIMENT.—GRAVESEND, June 20.—The Ramchunder, East Indiaman, came into the river this morning, having on board 14 officers, and 132 rank and file of this gallant corps. They have been absent from England fourteen years, having been embarked the year after Waterloo, in which glorious conflict they took an active part, and having subsequently distinguished themselves in the Burmese war. The veteran colonel, Sir Michael O‘Dowd, K.C.B., with his lady and sister, landed here yesterday with Captains Posky, Stubble, Macraw, Malony; Lieutenants Smith, Jones, Thompson, F. Thomson; Ensigns Hicks and Grady; the band on the pier playing the national anthem, and the crowd loudly cheering the gallant veterans as they went into Wayte‘s Hotel, where a sumptuous banquet was provided for the defenders of Old England. During the repast, which we need not say was served up in Wayte‘s best style, the cheering continued so enthusiastically, that Lady O‘Dowd and the colonel came forward to the balcony, and drank the healths of their fellow-countrymen in a bumper of Wayte‘s best claret.‘
On a second occasion Jos read a brief announcement:—Major Dobbin had joined the—th regiment at Chatham; and subsequently he promulgated accounts of the presentations at the Drawing-room, of Colonel Sir Michael O‘Dowd K.CB., Lady O‘Dowd (by Mrs. Molloy Malony of Ballymalony), and Miss Glorvina O‘Dowd (by Lady O‘Dowd). Almost directly after this, Dobbin‘s name appeared among the lieutenant-colonels: for old Marshal Tiptoff had died during the passage of the—th from Madras, and the Sovereign was pleased to advance Colonel Sir Michael O‘Dowd to the rank of major-general on his return to England, with an intimation that he should be colonel of the distinguished regiment which he had so long commanded.
Amelia had been made aware of some of these movements. The correspondence between George and his guardian had not ceased by any means: William had even written once or twice to her since his departure, but in a manner so unconstrainedly cold, that the poor woman felt now in her turn that she had lost her power over him, and that, as he had said, he was free. He had left her, and she was wretched. The memory of his almost countless services, and lofty and affectionate regard, now presented itself to her, and rebuked her day and night. She brooded over those recollections according to her wont: saw the purity and beauty of the affection with which she had trifled, and reproached herself for having flung away such a treasure.
It was gone indeed. William had spent it all out. He loved her no more, he thought, as he had loved her. He never could again. That sort of regard, which he had proffered to her for so many faithful years, can‘t be flung down and shattered, and mended so as to show no scars. The little heedless tyrant had so destroyed it. No, William thought again and again,‘It was myself I deluded, and persisted in cajoling; had she been worthy of the love I gave her, she would have returned it long ago. It was a fond mistake. Isn‘t the whole course of life made up of such? and suppose I had won her, should I not have been disenchanted the day after my victory? Why pine, or be ashamed of my defeat?‘ The more he thought of this long passage of his life, the more clearly he saw his deception. I‘ll go into harness again,‘ he said,‘and do my duty in that state of life in which it has pleased Heaven to place me. I will see that the buttons of the recruits are properly bright, and that the sergeants make no mistakes in their accounts. I will dine at mess, and listen to the Scotch surgeon telling his stories. When I am old and broke, I will go on half-pay, and my old sisters shall scold me. I have geliebt und gelebet as the girl in Wallenstein says.wb I am done.—Pay the bills and get me a cigar: find out what there is at the play to-night, Francis; to-morrow we cross by the Batavier‘ He made the above speech, whereof Francis only heard the last two lines, pacing up and down the Boompjes at Rotterdam. The Batavier was lying in the basin. He could see the place on the quarter-deck, where he and Emmy had sat on the happy voyage out. What had that little Mrs. Crawley to say to him? Psha! to-morrow we will put to sea, and return to England, home, and duty!
After June all the little Court society of Pumpernickel used to separate, according to the German plan, and make for a hundred watering-places, where they drank. at the wells; rode upon donkeys; gambled at the re- doutes, wc if they had money and a mind; rushed with hundreds of their kind, to gormandize at the tables d‘hote; and idled away the summer. The English diplomatists went off to Toeplitz and Kissingen, their French rivals shut up their chancellerie and whisked away to their darling Boulevard de Gand. The transparent reigning family took, too, to the waters, or retired to their hunting-lodges. Everybody went away having any pretensions to politeness, and, of course, with them, Doctor von Glauber, the Court doctor, and his baroness. The seasons for the baths were the most productive periods of the doctor‘s practice—he united business with pleasure, and his chief place of resort was Ostend, which is much frequented by Germans, and where the doctor treated himself and his spouse to what he called a ‘dib‘ in the sea.
His interesting patient, Jos, was a regular milch cow to the doctor, and he easily persuaded the civilian, both for his own health‘s sake and that of his charming sister, which was really very much shattered, to pass the summer at that hideous seaport town. Emmy did not care where she went much. Georgy jumped at the idea of a move. As for Becky, she came as a matter of course in the fourth place inside of the fine barouche Mr. Jos had bought: the two domestics being on the box in front. She might have some misgivings about the friends whom she should meet at Ostend, and who might be likely to tell ugly stories—but, bah! she was strong enough to hold her own. She had cast such an anchor in Jos now as would require a strong storm to shake. That incident of the picture had finished him. Becky took down her elephant, and put it into the little box which she had had from Amelia ever so many years ago. Emmy also came off with her Lares,—her two pictures,—and the party, finally, were lodged in an exceedingly dear and uncomfortable house at Ostend.
There Amelia began to take baths, and get what good she could from them, and though scores of people of Becky‘s acquaintance passed her and cut her, yet Mrs. Osborne, who walked about with her, and who knew nobody, was not aware of the treatment experienced by the friend whom she had chosen so judiciously as a companion; indeed, Becky never thought fit to tell her what was passing under her innocent eyes.
Some of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley‘s acquaintances, however, acknowledged her readily enough,—perhaps more readily than she would have desired. Among those were Major Loder (unattached) and Captain Rook (late of the Rifles), who might be seen any day on the Dyke, smoking and staring at the women, and who speedily got an introduction to the hospitable board and select circle of Mr. Joseph Sedley. In fact, they would take no denial; they burst into the house whether Becky was at home or not, walked into Mrs. Osborne‘s drawing-room, which they perfumed with their coats and moustachios, called Jos ‘old buck‘, and invaded his dinner-table, and laughed and drank for long hours there.
‘What can they mean?‘ asked Georgy, who did not like these gentlemen. ‘I heard the major say to Mrs. Crawley yesterday, “No, no, Becky, you shan‘t keep the old buck to yourself. We must have the bones in, or dammy, I‘ll split.” What could the major mean, mamma?‘
‘Major! don‘t call him major!‘ Emmy said. ‘I‘m sure I can‘t tell what he meant.‘ His presence and that of his friends inspired the little lady with intolerable terror and aversion. They paid her tipsy compliments; they leered at her over the dinner-table. And the captain made her advances that filled her with sickening dismay, nor would she ever see him unless she had George by her side.
Rebecca, to do her justice, never would let either of these men remain alone with Amelia; the major was disengaged too, and swore he would b
e the winner of her. A couple of ruffians were fighting for this innocent creature, gambling for her at her own table; and though she was not aware of the rascals‘ designs upon her, yet she felt a horror and uneasiness in their presence, and longed to fly.
She besought, she entreated Jos to go. Not he. He was slow of movement, tied to his doctor, and perhaps to some other leading-strings. At least Becky was not anxious to go to England.
At last she took a great resolution—made the great plunge. She wrote off a letter to a friend whom she had on the other side of the water; a letter about which she did not speak a word to anybody, which she carried herself to the post under her shawl, nor was any remark made about it; only that she looked very much flushed and agitated when Georgy met her: and she kissed him and hung over him a great deal that night. She did not come out of her room after her return from her walk. Becky thought it was Major Loder and the captain who frightened her.
‘She mustn‘t stop here,‘ Becky reasoned with herself. ‘She must go away, the silly little fool. She is still whimpering after that gabywd of a husband—dead (and served right!) these fifteen years. She shan‘t marry either of these men. It‘s too bad of Loder. No; she shall marry the bamboo-cane, I‘ll settle it this very night.‘
So Becky took a cup of tea to Amelia in her private apartment, and found that lady in the company of her miniatures, and in a most melancholy and nervous condition. She laid down the cup of tea.
‘Thank you,‘ said Amelia.
‘Listen to me, Amelia,‘said Becky, marching up and down the room before the other, and surveying her with a sort of contemptuous kindness. ‘I want to talk to you. You must go away from here and from the impertinences of these men. I won‘t have you harassed by them; and they will insult you if you stay. I tell you they are rascals; men fit to send to the hulks. Never mind how I know them. I know everybody. Jos can‘t protect you, he is too weak, and wants a protector himself. You are no more fit to live in the world than a baby in arms. You must marry, or you and your precious boy will go to ruin. You must have a husband, you fool; and one of the best gentlemen I ever saw has offered you a hundred times, and you have rejected him, you silly, heartless, ungrateful little creature!‘
‘I tried—I tried my best, indeed I did, Rebecca,‘ said Amelia, deprecat ingly, ‘but I couldn‘t forget—;‘ and she finished the sentence by looking up at the portrait.
‘Couldn‘t forget him!‘ cried out Becky,‘that selfish humbug, that low-bred Cockney dandy, that padded booby, who had neither wit, nor manners, nor heart, and was no more to be compared to your friend with the bamboo-cane than you are to Queen Elizabeth! Why, the man was weary of you, and would have jilted you, but that Dobbin forced him to keep his word. He owned it to me. He never cared for you. He used to sneer about you to me, time after time; and made love to me the week after he married you.‘
‘It‘s false! It‘s false! Rebecca,‘ cried out Amelia, starting up.
‘Look there, you fool,‘ Becky said, still with provoking good humour, and taking a little paper out of her belt, she opened it and flung it into Emmy‘s lap. ‘You know his handwriting. He wrote that to me—wanted me to run away with him—gave it me under your nose, the day before he was shot—and served him right!‘ Becky repeated.
Emmy did not hear her; she was looking at the letter. It was that which George had put into the bouquet and given to Becky on the night of the Duke of Richmond‘s ball. It was as she said: the foolish young man had asked her to fly.
Emmy‘s head sank down, and for almost the last time in which she shall be called upon to weep in this history, she commenced that work. Her head fell to her bosom, and her hands went up to her eyes; and there for awhile, she gave way to her emotions, as Becky stood on and regarded her. Who shall analyse those tears, and say whether they were sweet or bitter? Was she most grieved, because the idol of her life was tumbled down and shivered at her feet; or indignant that her love had been so despised; or glad because the barrier was removed which modesty had placed between her and a new, a real affection? ‘There is nothing to forbid me now,‘ she thought. ‘I may love him with all my heart now. Oh, I will, I will, if he will but let me, and forgive me.‘ I believe it was this feeling rushed over all the others which agitated that gentle little bosom.
THE LETTER BEFORE WATERLOO
Indeed, she did not cry so much as Becky expected—the other soothed and kissed her—a rare mark of sympathy with Mrs. Becky. She treated Emmy like a child, and patted her head. ‘And now let us get pen and ink, and write to him to come this minute,‘ she said.
‘1—1 wrote to him this morning,‘ Emmy said, blushing exceedingly.
Becky screamed with laughter—‘Un biglietto,‘ she sang out with Rosina, ‘eccolo qua!‘we—the whole house echoed with her shrill singing.
Two mornings after this little scene, although the day was rainy and gusty, and Amelia had had an exceedingly wakeful night, listening to the wind roaring, and pitying all travellers by land and by water, yet she got up early, and insisted upon taking a walk on the Dyke with Georgy; and there she paced as the rain beat into her face, and she looked out westward across the dark sea line, and over the swollen billows which came tumbling and frothing to the shore. Neither spoke much, except now and then, when the boy said a few words to his timid companion, indicative of sympathy and protection.
‘I hope he won‘t cross in such weather,‘ Emmy said.
‘I bet ten to one he does,‘ the boy answered. ‘Look, mother, there‘s the smoke of the steamer.‘ It was that signal, sure enough.
But though the steamer was under weigh, he might not be on board; he might not have got the letter; he might not choose to come.—A hundred fears poured one over the other into the little heart, as fast as the waves on to the Dyke.
The boat followed the smoke into sight. Georgy had a dandy telescope, and got the vessel under view in the most skilful manner. And he made appropriate nautical comments upon the manner of the approach of the steamer as she came nearer and nearer, dipping and rising in the water. The signal of an English steamer in sight went fluttering up to the mast on the pier. I dare say Mrs. Amelia‘s heart was in a similar flutter.
Emmy tried to look through the telescope over George‘s shoulder, but she could make nothing of it. She only saw a black eclipse bobbing up and down before her eyes.
George took the glass again and raked the vessel.‘How she does pitch!‘ he said. ‘There goes a wave slap over her bows. There‘s only two people on deck besides the steersman. There‘s a man lying down, and a—chap in a—cloak with a—Hooray!—It‘s Dob by Jingo!‘ He clapped-to the telescope and flung his arms round his mother. As for that lady: let us say what she did in the words of a favourite poet-△ακρυÓ∈ν γ∈λασσα.wf She was sure it was William. It could be no other. What she had said about hoping that he would not come was all hypocrisy. Of course he would come: what could he do else but come? She knew he would come.
The ship came swiftly nearer and nearer. As they went in to meet her at the landing-place at the Quay, Emmy‘s knees trembled so that she scarcely could run. She would have liked to kneel down and say her prayers of thanks there. Oh, she thought, she would be all her life saying them!
It was such a bad day that as the vessel came alongside of the Quay there were no idlers abroad; scarcely even a commissioner on the look-out for the few passengers in the steamer. That young scapegrace George had fled too: and as the gentleman in the old cloak lined with red stuff stepped on to the shore, there was scarcely any one present to see what took place, which was briefly this:—
A lady in a dripping white bonnet and shawl, with her two little hands out before her, went up to him, and in the next minute she had altogether disappeared under the folds of the old cloak, and was kissing one of his hands with all her might; whilst the other, I suppose, was engaged in holding her to his heart (which her head just about reached) and in preventing her from tumbling down. She was murmuring something about—forgive—dear
William—dear, dear, dearest friend—kiss, kiss, kiss, and so forth—and in fact went on under the cloak in an absurd manner.
When Emmy emerged from it, she still kept tight hold of one of William‘s hands, and looked up in his face. It was full of sadness and tender love and pity. She understood its reproach, and hung down her head.
‘It was time you sent for me, dear Amelia,‘ he said.
‘You will never go again, William.‘
‘No, never,‘ he answered: and pressed the dear little soul once more to his heart.
As they issued out of the Custom-house precincts, Georgy broke out on them, with his telescope up to his eye, and a loud laugh of welcome; he danced round the couple, and performed many facetious antics as he led them up to the house. Jos wasn‘t up yet; Becky not visible (though she looked at them through the blinds). Georgy ran off to see about breakfast. Emmy, whose shawl and bonnet were off in the passage in the hands of Mrs. Payne, now went to undo the clasp of William‘s cloak, and—we will, if you please, go with George and look after breakfast for the colonel. The vessel is in port. He has got the prize he has been trying for all his life. The bird has come in at last. There it is with its head on his shoulder, billing and cooing close up to his heart, with soft outstretched fluttering wings. This is what he has asked for every day and hour for eighteen years. This is what he pined after. Here it is—the summit, the end—the last page of the third volume. Good-bye, colonel—God bless you, honest William!—Farewell, dear Amelia—Grow green again, tender little parasite, round the rugged old oak to which you cling !31
Perhaps it was compunction towards the kind and simple creature who had been the first in life to defend her, perhaps it was a dislike to all such sentimental scenes,—but Rebecca, satisfied with her part in the transaction, never presented herself before Colonel Dobbin and the lady whom he married. ‘Particular business,‘ she said, took her to Bruges, whither she went; and only Georgy and his uncle were present at the marriage ceremony. When it was over, and Georgy had rejoined his parents, Mrs. Becky returned (just for a few days) to comfort the solitary bachelor Joseph Sedley. He preferred a Continental life, be said, and declined to join in housekeeping with his sister and her husband.
Vanity Fair (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 93