Vanity Fair
Amelia drew back her hand--never since her life began had that gentle
soul refused to believe or to answer any demonstration of good-will or
affection. But she drew back her hand, and trembled all over. "Why
are you here, Rebecca?" she said, still looking at her solemnly with
her large eyes. These glances troubled her visitor.
"She must have seen him give me the letter at the ball," Rebecca
thought. "Don't be agitated, dear Amelia," she said, looking down. "I
came but to see if I could--if you were well."
"Are you well?" said Amelia. "I dare say you are. You don't love your
husband. You would not be here if you did. Tell me, Rebecca, did I
ever do you anything but kindness?"
"Indeed, Amelia, no," the other said, still hanging down her head.
"When you were quite poor, who was it that befriended you? Was I not a
sister to you? You saw us all in happier days before he married me. I
was all in all then to him; or would he have given up his fortune, his
family, as he nobly did to make me happy? Why did you come between my
love and me? Who sent you to separate those whom God joined, and take
my darling's heart from me--my own husband? Do you think you could
love him as I did? His love was everything to me. You knew it, and
wanted to rob me of it. For shame, Rebecca; bad and wicked
woman--false friend and false wife."
"Amelia, I protest before God, I have done my husband no wrong,"
Rebecca said, turning from her.
"Have you done me no wrong, Rebecca? You did not succeed, but you
tried. Ask your heart if you did not."
She knows nothing, Rebecca thought.
"He came back to me. I knew he would. I knew that no falsehood, no
flattery, could keep him from me long. I knew he would come. I prayed
so that he should."
The poor girl spoke these words with a spirit and volubility which
Rebecca had never before seen in her, and before which the latter was
quite dumb. "But what have I done to you," she continued in a more
pitiful tone, "that you should try and take him from me? I had him but
for six weeks. You might have spared me those, Rebecca. And yet, from
the very first day of our wedding, you came and blighted it. Now he is
gone, are you come to see how unhappy I am?" she continued. "You made
me wretched enough for the past fortnight: you might have spared me
to-day."
"I--I never came here," interposed Rebecca, with unlucky truth.
"No. You didn't come. You took him away. Are you come to fetch him
from me?" she continued in a wilder tone. "He was here, but he is gone
now. There on that very sofa he sate. Don't touch it. We sate and
talked there. I was on his knee, and my arms were round his neck, and
we said 'Our Father.' Yes, he was here: and they came and took him
away, but he promised me to come back."
"He will come back, my dear," said Rebecca, touched in spite of herself.
"Look," said Amelia, "this is his sash--isn't it a pretty colour?" and
she took up the fringe and kissed it. She had tied it round her waist
at some part of the day. She had forgotten her anger, her jealousy,
the very presence of her rival seemingly. For she walked silently and
almost with a smile on her face, towards the bed, and began to smooth
down George's pillow.
Rebecca walked, too, silently away. "How is Amelia?" asked Jos, who
still held his position in the chair.
"There should be somebody with her," said Rebecca. "I think she is very
unwell": and she went away with a very grave face, refusing Mr.
Sedley's entreaties that she would stay and partake of the early dinner
which he had ordered.
Rebecca was of a good-natured and obliging disposition; and she liked
Amelia rather than otherwise. Even her hard words, reproachful as they
were, were complimentary--the groans of a person stinging under defeat.
Meeting Mrs. O'Dowd, whom the Dean's sermons had by no means comforted,
and who was walking very disconsolately in the Parc, Rebecca accosted
the latter, rather to the surprise of the Major's wife, who was not
accustomed to such marks of politeness from Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, and
informing her that poor little Mrs. Osborne was in a desperate
condition, and almost mad with grief, sent off the good-natured
Irishwoman straight to see if she could console her young favourite.
"I've cares of my own enough," Mrs. O'Dowd said, gravely, "and I
thought poor Amelia would be little wanting for company this day. But
if she's so bad as you say, and you can't attend to her, who used to be
so fond of her, faith I'll see if I can be of service. And so good
marning to ye, Madam"; with which speech and a toss of her head, the
lady of the repayther took a farewell of Mrs. Crawley, whose company
she by no means courted.
Becky watched her marching off, with a smile on her lip. She had the
keenest sense of humour, and the Parthian look which the retreating
Mrs. O'Dowd flung over her shoulder almost upset Mrs. Crawley's
gravity. "My service to ye, me fine Madam, and I'm glad to see ye so
cheerful," thought Peggy. "It's not YOU that will cry your eyes out
with grief, anyway." And with this she passed on, and speedily found
her way to Mrs. Osborne's lodgings.
The poor soul was still at the bedside, where Rebecca had left her, and
stood almost crazy with grief. The Major's wife, a stronger-minded
woman, endeavoured her best to comfort her young friend. "You must bear
up, Amelia, dear," she said kindly, "for he mustn't find you ill when
he sends for you after the victory. It's not you are the only woman
that are in the hands of God this day."
"I know that. I am very wicked, very weak," Amelia said. She knew her
own weakness well enough. The presence of the more resolute friend
checked it, however; and she was the better of this control and
company. They went on till two o'clock; their hearts were with the
column as it marched farther and farther away. Dreadful doubt and
anguish--prayers and fears and griefs unspeakable--followed the
regiment. It was the women's tribute to the war. It taxes both alike,
and takes the blood of the men, and the tears of the women.
At half-past two, an event occurred of daily importance to Mr. Joseph:
the dinner-hour arrived. Warriors may fight and perish, but he must
dine. He came into Amelia's room to see if he could coax her to share
that meal. "Try," said he; "the soup is very good. Do try, Emmy," and
he kissed her hand. Except when she was married, he had not done so
much for years before. "You are very good and kind, Joseph," she said.
"Everybody is, but, if you please, I will stay in my room to-day."
The savour of the soup, however, was agreeable to Mrs. O'Dowd's
nostrils: and she thought she would bear Mr. Jos company. So the two
sate down to their meal. "God bless the meat," said the Major's wife,
solemnly: she was thinking of her honest Mick, riding at the head of
his regiment: "'Tis but a bad dinner those poor boys will get to-day,"
she said, with a sigh, and then, like a philosopher, fell to.
Jos's spirits rose with his meal. He would drink the regiment's
health; or, indeed, take any other excuse to indulge in a glass of
champagne. "We'll drink to O'Dowd and the brave --th," said he, bowing
gallantly to his guest. "Hey, Mrs. O'Dowd? Fill Mrs. O'Dowd's glass,
Isidor."
But all of a sudden, Isidor started, and the Major's wife laid down her
knife and fork. The windows of the room were open, and looked
southward, and a dull distant sound came over the sun-lighted roofs
from that direction. "What is it?" said Jos. "Why don't you pour, you
rascal?"
"Cest le feu!" said Isidor, running to the balcony.
"God defend us; it's cannon!" Mrs. O'Dowd cried, starting up, and
followed too to the window. A thousand pale and anxious faces might
have been seen looking from other casements. And presently it seemed
as if the whole population of the city rushed into the streets.
CHAPTER XXXII
In Which Jos Takes Flight, and the War Is Brought to a Close
We of peaceful London City have never beheld--and please God never
shall witness--such a scene of hurry and alarm, as that which Brussels
presented. Crowds rushed to the Namur gate, from which direction the
noise proceeded, and many rode along the level chaussee, to be in
advance of any intelligence from the army. Each man asked his
neighbour for news; and even great English lords and ladies
condescended to speak to persons whom they did not know. The friends
of the French went abroad, wild with excitement, and prophesying the
triumph of their Emperor. The merchants closed their shops, and came
out to swell the general chorus of alarm and clamour. Women rushed to
the churches, and crowded the chapels, and knelt and prayed on the
flags and steps. The dull sound of the cannon went on rolling,
rolling. Presently carriages with travellers began to leave the town,
galloping away by the Ghent barrier. The prophecies of the French
partisans began to pass for facts. "He has cut the armies in two," it
was said. "He is marching straight on Brussels. He will overpower the
English, and be here to-night." "He will overpower the English,"
shrieked Isidor to his master, "and will be here to-night." The man
bounded in and out from the lodgings to the street, always returning
with some fresh particulars of disaster. Jos's face grew paler and
paler. Alarm began to take entire possession of the stout civilian.
All the champagne he drank brought no courage to him. Before sunset he
was worked up to such a pitch of nervousness as gratified his friend
Isidor to behold, who now counted surely upon the spoils of the owner
of the laced coat.
The women were away all this time. After hearing the firing for a
moment, the stout Major's wife bethought her of her friend in the next
chamber, and ran in to watch, and if possible to console, Amelia. The
idea that she had that helpless and gentle creature to protect, gave
additional strength to the natural courage of the honest Irishwoman.
She passed five hours by her friend's side, sometimes in remonstrance,
sometimes talking cheerfully, oftener in silence and terrified mental
supplication. "I never let go her hand once," said the stout lady
afterwards, "until after sunset, when the firing was over." Pauline,
the bonne, was on her knees at church hard by, praying for son homme a
elle.
When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs. O'Dowd issued out of
Amelia's room into the parlour adjoining, where Jos sate with two
emptied flasks, and courage entirely gone. Once or twice he had
ventured into his sister's bedroom, looking very much alarmed, and as
if he would say something. But the Major's wife kept her place, and he
went away without disburthening himself of his speech. He was ashamed
to tell her that he wanted to fly.
But when she made her appearance in the dining-room, where he sate in
the twilight in the cheerless company of his empty champagne bottles,
he began to open his mind to her.
"Mrs. O'Dowd," he said, "hadn't you better get Amelia ready?"
"Are you going to take her out for a walk?" said the Major's lady;
"sure she's too weak to stir."
"I--I've ordered the carriage," he said, "and--and post-horses; Isidor
is gone for them," Jos continued.
"What do you want with driving to-night?" answered the lady. "Isn't
she better on her bed? I've just got her to lie down."
"Get her up," said Jos; "she must get up, I say": and he stamped his
foot energetically. "I say the horses are ordered--yes, the horses are
ordered. It's all over, and--"
"And what?" asked Mrs. O'Dowd.
"I'm off for Ghent," Jos answered. "Everybody is going; there's a
place for you! We shall start in half-an-hour."
The Major's wife looked at him with infinite scorn. "I don't move till