Vanity Fair (49 page)

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.

"The Girl I Left Behind Me"

We do not claim to rank among the military novelists. Our place is
with the non-combatants. When the decks are cleared for action we
go below and wait meekly. We should only be in the way of the
manoeuvres that the gallant fellows are performing overhead. We
shall go no farther with the —th than to the city gate: and leaving
Major O'Dowd to his duty, come back to the Major's wife, and the
ladies and the baggage.

Now the Major and his lady, who had not been invited to the ball at
which in our last chapter other of our friends figured, had much
more time to take their wholesome natural rest in bed, than was
accorded to people who wished to enjoy pleasure as well as to do
duty. "It's my belief, Peggy, my dear," said he, as he placidly
pulled his nightcap over his ears, "that there will be such a ball
danced in a day or two as some of 'em has never heard the chune of";
and he was much more happy to retire to rest after partaking of a
quiet tumbler, than to figure at any other sort of amusement.
Peggy, for her part, would have liked to have shown her turban and
bird of paradise at the ball, but for the information which her
husband had given her, and which made her very grave.