Vanity Fair (52 page)

These opinions in the course of the day were brought to operate upon
Mr. Sedley. He was told that the Duke of Wellington had gone to try
and rally his army, the advance of which had been utterly crushed
the night before.

"Crushed, psha!" said Jos, whose heart was pretty stout at
breakfast-time. "The Duke has gone to beat the Emperor as he has
beaten all his generals before."

"His papers are burned, his effects are removed, and his quarters
are being got ready for the Duke of Dalmatia," Jos's informant
replied. "I had it from his own maitre d'hotel. Milor Duc de
Richemont's people are packing up everything. His Grace has fled
already, and the Duchess is only waiting to see the plate packed to
join the King of France at Ostend."

"The King of France is at Ghent, fellow," replied Jos, affecting
incredulity.

"He fled last night to Bruges, and embarks today from Ostend. The
Duc de Berri is taken prisoner. Those who wish to be safe had
better go soon, for the dykes will be opened to-morrow, and who can
fly when the whole country is under water?"

"Nonsense, sir, we are three to one, sir, against any force Boney
can bring into the field," Mr. Sedley objected; "the Austrians and
the Russians are on their march. He must, he shall be crushed," Jos
said, slapping his hand on the table.

"The Prussians were three to one at Jena, and he took their army and
kingdom in a week. They were six to one at Montmirail, and he
scattered them like sheep. The Austrian army is coming, but with the
Empress and the King of Rome at its head; and the Russians, bah! the
Russians will withdraw. No quarter is to be given to the English,
on account of their cruelty to our braves on board the infamous
pontoons. Look here, here it is in black and white. Here's the
proclamation of his Majesty the Emperor and King," said the now
declared partisan of Napoleon, and taking the document from his
pocket, Isidor sternly thrust it into his master's face, and already
looked upon the frogged coat and valuables as his own spoil.

Jos was, if not seriously alarmed as yet, at least considerably
disturbed in mind. "Give me my coat and cap, sir, said he, "and
follow me. I will go myself and learn the truth of these reports."
Isidor was furious as Jos put on the braided frock. "Milor had
better not wear that military coat," said he; "the Frenchmen have
sworn not to give quarter to a single British soldier."

"Silence, sirrah!" said Jos, with a resolute countenance still, and
thrust his arm into the sleeve with indomitable resolution, in the
performance of which heroic act he was found by Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,
who at this juncture came up to visit Amelia, and entered without
ringing at the antechamber door.

Rebecca was dressed very neatly and smartly, as usual: her quiet
sleep after Rawdon's departure had refreshed her, and her pink
smiling cheeks were quite pleasant to look at, in a town and on a
day when everybody else's countenance wore the appearance of the
deepest anxiety and gloom. She laughed at the attitude in which Jos
was discovered, and the struggles and convulsions with which the
stout gentleman thrust himself into the braided coat.

"Are you preparing to join the army, Mr. Joseph?" she said. "Is
there to be nobody left in Brussels to protect us poor women?" Jos
succeeded in plunging into the coat, and came forward blushing and
stuttering out excuses to his fair visitor. "How was she after the
events of the morning—after the fatigues of the ball the night
before?" Monsieur Isidor disappeared into his master's adjacent
bedroom, bearing off the flowered dressing-gown.

"How good of you to ask," said she, pressing one of his hands in
both her own. "How cool and collected you look when everybody else
is frightened! How is our dear little Emmy? It must have been an
awful, awful parting."

"Tremendous," Jos said.

"You men can bear anything," replied the lady. "Parting or danger
are nothing to you. Own now that you were going to join the army
and leave us to our fate. I know you were—something tells me you
were. I was so frightened, when the thought came into my head (for
I do sometimes think of you when I am alone, Mr. Joseph), that I ran
off immediately to beg and entreat you not to fly from us."

This speech might be interpreted, "My dear sir, should an accident
befall the army, and a retreat be necessary, you have a very
comfortable carriage, in which I propose to take a seat." I don't
know whether Jos understood the words in this sense. But he was
profoundly mortified by the lady's inattention to him during their
stay at Brussels. He had never been presented to any of Rawdon
Crawley's great acquaintances: he had scarcely been invited to
Rebecca's parties; for he was too timid to play much, and his
presence bored George and Rawdon equally, who neither of them,
perhaps, liked to have a witness of the amusements in which the pair
chose to indulge. "Ah!" thought Jos, "now she wants me she comes to
me. When there is nobody else in the way she can think about old
Joseph Sedley!" But besides these doubts he felt flattered at the
idea Rebecca expressed of his courage.

He blushed a good deal, and put on an air of importance. "I should
like to see the action," he said. "Every man of any spirit would,
you know. I've seen a little service in India, but nothing on this
grand scale."

"You men would sacrifice anything for a pleasure," Rebecca answered.
"Captain Crawley left me this morning as gay as if he were going to
a hunting party. What does he care? What do any of you care for
the agonies and tortures of a poor forsaken woman? (I wonder
whether he could really have been going to the troops, this great
lazy gourmand?) Oh! dear Mr. Sedley, I have come to you for
comfort—for consolation. I have been on my knees all the morning.
I tremble at the frightful danger into which our husbands, our
friends, our brave troops and allies, are rushing. And I come here
for shelter, and find another of my friends—the last remaining to
me—bent upon plunging into the dreadful scene!"

"My dear madam," Jos replied, now beginning to be quite soothed,
"don't be alarmed. I only said I should like to go—what Briton
would not? But my duty keeps me here: I can't leave that poor
creature in the next room." And he pointed with his finger to the
door of the chamber in which Amelia was.

"Good noble brother!" Rebecca said, putting her handkerchief to her
eyes, and smelling the eau-de-cologne with which it was scented. "I
have done you injustice: you have got a heart. I thought you had
not."

"O, upon my honour!" Jos said, making a motion as if he would lay
his hand upon the spot in question. "You do me injustice, indeed
you do—my dear Mrs. Crawley."

"I do, now your heart is true to your sister. But I remember two
years ago—when it was false to me!" Rebecca said, fixing her eyes
upon him for an instant, and then turning away into the window.

Jos blushed violently. That organ which he was accused by Rebecca
of not possessing began to thump tumultuously. He recalled the days
when he had fled from her, and the passion which had once inflamed
him—the days when he had driven her in his curricle: when she had
knit the green purse for him: when he had sate enraptured gazing at
her white arms and bright eyes.

"I know you think me ungrateful," Rebecca continued, coming out of
the window, and once more looking at him and addressing him in a low
tremulous voice. "Your coldness, your averted looks, your manner
when we have met of late—when I came in just now, all proved it to
me. But were there no reasons why I should avoid you? Let your own
heart answer that question. Do you think my husband was too much
inclined to welcome you? The only unkind words I have ever had from
him (I will do Captain Crawley that justice) have been about you—
and most cruel, cruel words they were."

"Good gracious! what have I done?" asked Jos in a flurry of pleasure
and perplexity; "what have I done—to—to—?"

"Is jealousy nothing?" said Rebecca. "He makes me miserable about
you. And whatever it might have been once—my heart is all his. I
am innocent now. Am I not, Mr. Sedley?"

All Jos's blood tingled with delight, as he surveyed this victim to
his attractions. A few adroit words, one or two knowing tender
glances of the eyes, and his heart was inflamed again and his doubts
and suspicions forgotten. From Solomon downwards, have not wiser
men than he been cajoled and befooled by women? "If the worst comes
to the worst," Becky thought, "my retreat is secure; and I have a
right-hand seat in the barouche."

There is no knowing into what declarations of love and ardour the
tumultuous passions of Mr. Joseph might have led him, if Isidor the
valet had not made his reappearance at this minute, and begun to
busy himself about the domestic affairs. Jos, who was just going to
gasp out an avowal, choked almost with the emotion that he was
obliged to restrain. Rebecca too bethought her that it was time she
should go in and comfort her dearest Amelia. "Au revoir," she said,
kissing her hand to Mr. Joseph, and tapped gently at the door of his
sister's apartment. As she entered and closed the door on herself,
he sank down in a chair, and gazed and sighed and puffed
portentously. "That coat is very tight for Milor," Isidor said,
still having his eye on the frogs; but his master heard him not:
his thoughts were elsewhere: now glowing, maddening, upon the
contemplation of the enchanting Rebecca: anon shrinking guiltily
before the vision of the jealous Rawdon Crawley, with his curling,
fierce mustachios, and his terrible duelling pistols loaded and
cocked.

Rebecca's appearance struck Amelia with terror, and made her shrink
back. It recalled her to the world and the remembrance of
yesterday. In the overpowering fears about to-morrow she had
forgotten Rebecca—jealousy—everything except that her husband was
gone and was in danger. Until this dauntless worldling came in and
broke the spell, and lifted the latch, we too have forborne to enter
into that sad chamber. How long had that poor girl been on her
knees! what hours of speechless prayer and bitter prostration had
she passed there! The war-chroniclers who write brilliant stories
of fight and triumph scarcely tell us of these. These are too mean
parts of the pageant: and you don't hear widows' cries or mothers'
sobs in the midst of the shouts and jubilation in the great Chorus
of Victory. And yet when was the time that such have not cried out:
heart-broken, humble protestants, unheard in the uproar of the
triumph!

After the first movement of terror in Amelia's mind—when Rebecca's
green eyes lighted upon her, and rustling in her fresh silks and
brilliant ornaments, the latter tripped up with extended arms to
embrace her—a feeling of anger succeeded, and from being deadly
pale before, her face flushed up red, and she returned Rebecca's
look after a moment with a steadiness which surprised and somewhat
abashed her rival.

"Dearest Amelia, you are very unwell," the visitor said, putting
forth her hand to take Amelia's. "What is it? I could not rest
until I knew how you were."

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 I 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."