Ярмарка тщеславия / Vanity Fair
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George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice – how many times Amelia scarcely knew. At last George came for Rebecca’s shawl and flowers. She was going away. She did not even 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.
“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.” He went away with her quickly.
George led Becky to the coach and passed her a bouquet of flowers in which there lay a letter. In this letter Amelia’s faithful husband asked Becky to elope with him and search for a new life. Osborne, wild with elation, went off to a play-table, and began to bet frantically.
“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 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.”
George thought over his brief married life. How wild and reckless he had been! How unworthy he was of her. He sat down to write a letter to his father. George came in and looked at her again, entering still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could see her sweet, pale face. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender, and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with crime! God bless her! God bless her! He came to the bedside, and 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.
13
Thus all the superior officers being summoned on duty elsewhere, Jos Sedley was left in command of the little colony at Brussels.
The following days were the grave ones. Only Rebecca had the heart to proceed with her affairs of flirting with Jos and searching for new sources of income. Darkness came down on the field and city: and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.
The news which that famous Gazette brought to the Osbornes gave a dreadful shock to the family and its chief. The girls indulged unrestrained in their grief. The gloom-stricken old father was full of sorrow. Sometimes a shuddering terror struck him, as if he had been the author of the doom which he had called down on his son. There was a chance before of reconciliation. The boy’s wife might have died; or he might have come back and said, Father I have sinned. But there was no hope now. And it is hard to say which pang it was that tore the proud father’s heart most keenly – that his son should have gone out of the reach of his forgiveness, or that the apology which his own pride expected should have escaped him.
About three weeks after the 18th of June, Mr. Osborne’s acquaintance, Sir William Dobbin, called at Mr. Osborne’s house in Russell Square, with a very pale and agitated face, and insisted upon seeing that gentleman. He took out a letter sealed with a large red seal. “My son, Major Dobbin,” the Alderman said, with some hesitation, “dispatched me a letter by an officer. My son’s letter contains one for you, Osborne.” The Alderman placed the letter on the table, and Osborne stared at him for a moment or two in silence.
The poor boy’s letter did not say much. He had been too proud to acknowledge the tenderness which his heart felt. He only said, that on the eve of a great battle, he wished to bid his father farewell, and solemnly to implore his good offices for the wife – it might be for the child – whom he left behind him. He thanked his father for his former generous conduct; and he promised him that if he fell on the field or survived it, he would act in a manner worthy of the name of George Osborne. His English habit, pride, awkwardness perhaps, had prevented him from saying more. His father could not see the kiss George had placed on his letter. Mr. Osborne dropped it with the bitterest, deadliest pang of affection and revenge. His son was still beloved and unforgiven.
If the sisters had any anxiety regarding the possible recognition of Amelia as a daughter of the family, it was increased presently, and towards the end of the autumn, by their father’s announcement that he was going abroad. He did not say whither, but they knew at once that his steps would be turned towards Belgium, and were aware that George’s widow was still in Brussels.
As after the drive to Waterloo, Mr. Osborne’s carriage was nearing the gates of the city at sunset, they met another one with a couple of ladies and a gentleman, and by the side of which an officer was riding.
It was Amelia but how changed from the fresh and comely girl Osborne knew. Her face was white and thin. Her pretty brown hair was parted under a widow’s cap – the poor child. Her eyes were fixed, and looking nowhere. They stared blank in the face of Osborne, as the carriages crossed each other, but she did not know him; nor did he recognize her, until looking up, he saw Dobbin riding by her: and then he knew who it was. He hated her. He did not know how much until he saw her there.
A minute afterwards, a horse came clattering over the pavement behind Osborne’s carriage, and Dobbin rode up. “Mr. Osborne, Mr. Osborne!” cried Dobbin, as he rode up and held out his hand. Osborne made no motion to take it, but shouted out once more and with another curse to his servant to drive on.
Dobbin laid his hand on the carriage side. “I will see you, sir,” he said. “I have a message for you.”
“From that woman?” said Osborne, fiercely.
“No,” replied the other, “from your son”; at which Osborne fell back into the corner of his carriage, and Dobbin allowing it to pass on.
“I am here as his closest friend,” the Major resumed, “and the executor of his will. He made it before he went into action. Are you aware how small his means are, and of the straitened circumstances of his widow?”
“I don’t know his widow, sir,” Osborne said. “Let her go back to her father.” But the gentleman whom he addressed was determined to remain in good temper, and went on.
“Do you know, sir, Mrs. Osborne’s condition? Her life and her reason almost have been shaken by the blow which has fallen on her. It is very doubtful whether she will rally. There is a chance left for her, however, and it is about this I came to speak to you. She will be a mother soon. Will you forgive the child for poor George’s sake?”