"I wonder what Major Dobbin has to say against
Rebecca?" Amelia said in a low, clear voice with a slight
quiver in it, and a very determined look about the eyes.
"I will not have this sort of thing in my house," Jos
again interposed. "I say I will not have it; and Dobbin, I
beg, sir, you'll stop it." And he looked round, trembling
and turning very red, and gave a great puff, and
made for his door.
"Dear friend!" Rebecca said with angelic sweetness,
"do hear what Major Dobbin has to say against me."
"I will not hear it, I say," squeaked out Jos at the
top of his voice, and, gathering up his dressing-gown, he
was gone.
"We are only two women," Amelia said. "You can
speak now, sir."
"This manner towards me is one which scarcely
becomes you, Amelia," the Major answered haughtily; "nor
I believe am I guilty of habitual harshness to women. It
is not a pleasure to me to do the duty which I am come
to do."
"Pray proceed with it quickly, if you please, Major
Dobbin," said Amelia, who was more and more in a pet. The
expression of Dobbin's face, as she spoke in this
imperious manner, was not pleasant.
"I came to say--and as you stay, Mrs. Crawley, I must
say it in your presence--that I think you--you ought
not to form a member of the family of my friends. A
lady who is separated from her husband, who travels not
under her own name, who frequents public gaming-
tables--"
"It was to the ball I went," cried out Becky.
"--is not a fit companion for Mrs. Osborne and her
son," Dobbin went on: "and I may add that there are
people here who know you, and who profess to know
that regarding your conduct about which I don't even
wish to speak before--before Mrs. Osborne."
"Yours is a very modest and convenient sort of calumny,
Major Dobbin," Rebecca said. "You leave me under
the weight of an accusation which, after all, is unsaid.
What is it? Is it unfaithfulness to my husband? I scorn it
and defy anybody to prove it--I defy you, I say. My
honour is as untouched as that of the bitterest enemy
who ever maligned me. Is it of being poor, forsaken,
wretched, that you accuse me? Yes, I am guilty of those
faults, and punished for them every day. Let me go,
Emmy. It is only to suppose that I have not met you,
and I am no worse to-day than I was yesterday. It is
only to suppose that the night is over and the poor
wanderer is on her way. Don't you remember the song
we used to sing in old, dear old days? I have been
wandering ever since then--a poor castaway, scorned for
being miserable, and insulted because I am alone. Let me
go: my stay here interferes with the plans of this
gentleman."
"Indeed it does, madam," said the Major. "If I have
any authority in this house--"
"Authority, none!" broke out Amelia "Rebecca,
you stay with me. I won't desert you because you have
been persecuted, or insult you because--because Major
Dobbin chooses to do so. Come away, dear." And the
two women made towards the door.
William opened it. As they were going out, however, he
took Amelia's hand and said--"Will you stay a moment
and speak to me?"
"He wishes to speak to you away from me," said
Becky, looking like a martyr. Amelia gripped her hand in
reply.
"Upon my honour it is not about you that I am going
to speak," Dobbin said. "Come back, Amelia," and she
came. Dobbin bowed to Mrs. Crawley, as he shut the
door upon her. Amelia looked at him, leaning against the
glass: her face and her lips were quite white.
"I was confused when I spoke just now," the Major
said after a pause, "and I misused the word authority."
"You did," said Amelia with her teeth chattering.
"At least I have claims to be heard," Dobbin
continued.
"It is generous to remind me of our obligations to you,"
the woman answered.
"The claims I mean are those left me by George's
father," William said.
"Yes, and you insulted his memory. You did yesterday.
You know you did. And I will never forgive you. Never!"
said Amelia. She shot out each little sentence in a tremor
of anger and emotion.
"You don't mean that, Amelia?" William said sadly.
"You don't mean that these words, uttered in a hurried
moment, are to weigh against a whole life's devotion? I
think that George's memory has not been injured by the
way in which I have dealt with it, and if we are come to
bandying reproaches, I at least merit none from his
widow and the mother of his son. Reflect, afterwards when
--when you are at leisure, and your conscience will
withdraw this accusation. It does even now." Amelia held
down her head.
"It is not that speech of yesterday," he continued,
"which moves you. That is but the pretext, Amelia, or I
have loved you and watched you for fifteen years in vain.
Have I not learned in that time to read all your feelings
and look into your thoughts? I know what your heart
is capable of: it can cling faithfully to a recollection and
cherish a fancy, but it can't feel such an attachment as
mine deserves to mate with, and such as I would have
won from a woman more generous than you. No, you
are not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you.
I knew all along that the prize I had set my life on was
not worth the winning; that I was a fool, with fond
fancies, too, bartering away my all of truth and ardour
against your little feeble remnant of love. I will bargain
no more: I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You are
very good-natured, and have done your best, but you
couldn't--you couldn't reach up to the height of the
attachment which I bore you, and which a loftier soul than
yours might have been proud to share. Good-bye, Amelia!
I have watched your struggle. Let it end. We are both
weary of it."
Amelia stood scared and silent as William thus
suddenly broke the chain by which she held him and
declared his independence and superiority. He had placed
himself at her feet so long that the poor little woman
had been accustomed to trample upon him. She didn't
wish to marry him, but she wished to keep him. She
wished to give him nothing, but that he should give her
all. It is a bargain not unfrequently levied in love.
William's sally had quite broken and cast her down.
HER assault was long since over and beaten back.
"Am I to understand then, that you are going--away,
William?" she said.
He gave a sad laugh. "I went once before," he said,
"and came back after twelve years. We were young then,
Amelia. Good-bye. I have spent enough of my life at this
play."
Whilst they had been talking, the door into Mrs. Osborne's
room had opened ever so little; indeed, Becky
had kept a hold of the handle and had turned it on the
instant when Dobbin quitted it, and she heard every word
of the conversation that had passed between these two.
"What a noble heart that man has," she thought, and
how shamefully that woman plays with it!" She admired
Dobbin; she bore him no rancour for the part he had
taken against her. It was an open move in the game,
and played fairly. "Ah!" she thought, "if I could have had
such a husband as that--a man with a heart and brains
too! I would not have minded his large feet"; and running
into her room, she absolutely bethought herself of
something, and wrote him a note, beseeching him to stop for a
few days--not to think of going--and that she could
serve him with A.
The parting was over. Once more poor William walked
to the door and was gone; and the little widow, the
author of all this work, had her will, and had won her
victory, and was left to enjoy it as she best might. Let
the ladies envy her triumph.
At the romantic hour of dinner, Mr. Georgy made his
appearance and again remarked the absence of "Old
Dob." The meal was eaten in silence by the party. Jos's
appetite not being diminished, but Emmy taking
nothing at all.
After the meal, Georgy was lolling in the cushions of
the old window, a large window, with three sides of glass
abutting from the gable, and commanding on one side
the market-place, where the Elephant is, his mother being
busy hard by, when he remarked symptoms of
movement at the Major's house on the other side of the street.
"Hullo!" said he, "there's Dob's trap--they are bringing
it out of the court-yard." The "trap" in question
was a carriage which the Major had bought for six pounds
sterling, and about which they used to rally him a good
deal.
Emmy gave a little start, but said nothing.
"Hullo!" Georgy continued, "there's Francis coming out
with the portmanteaus, and Kunz, the one-eyed
postilion, coming down the market with three schimmels.
Look at his boots and yellow jacket--ain't he a rum
one? Why--they're putting the horses to Dob's carriage.
Is he going anywhere?"
"Yes," said Emmy, "he is going on a journey."
"Going on a journey; and when is he coming back?"
"He is--not coming back," answered Emmy.
"Not coming back!" cried out Georgy, jumping up.
"Stay here, sir," roared out Jos. "Stay, Georgy," said his
mother with a very sad face. The boy stopped, kicked
about the room, jumped up and down from the window-
seat with his knees, and showed every symptom of
uneasiness and curiosity.
The horses were put to. The baggage was strapped
on. Francis came out with his master's sword, cane,
and umbrella tied up together, and laid them in the
well, and his desk and old tin cocked-hat case, which
he placed under the seat. Francis brought out the
stained old blue cloak lined with red camlet, which had
wrapped the owner up any time these fifteen years, and
had manchen Sturm erlebt, as a favourite song of those
days said. It had been new for the campaign of Waterloo
and had covered George and William after the night
of Quatre Bras.
Old Burcke, the landlord of the lodgings, came out,
then Francis, with more packages--final packages--then
Major William--Burcke wanted to kiss him. The Major
was adored by all people with whom he had to do. It
was with difficulty he could escape from this
demonstration of attachment.
"By Jove, I will go!" screamed out George. "Give him
this," said Becky, quite interested, and put a paper into
the boy's hand. He had rushed down the stairs and flung
across the street in a minute--the yellow postilion was
cracking his whip gently.
William had got into the carriage, released from the
embraces of his landlord. George bounded in afterwards,
and flung his arms round the Major's neck (as they saw
from the window), and began asking him multiplied
questions. Then he felt in his waistcoat pocket and gave him
a note. William seized at it rather eagerly, he opened it
trembling, but instantly his countenance changed, and
he tore the paper in two and dropped it out of the
carriage. He kissed Georgy on the head, and the boy got
out, doubling his fists into his eyes, and with the aid of
Francis. He lingered with his hand on the panel. Fort,
Schwager! The yellow postilion cracked his whip
prodigiously, up sprang Francis to the box, away went the
schimmels, and Dobbin with his head on his breast. He
never looked up as they passed under Amelia's window,
and Georgy, left alone in the street, burst out crying
in the face of all the crowd.
Emmy's maid heard him howling again during the
night and brought him some preserved apricots to
console him. She mingled her lamentations with his. All the
poor, all the humble, all honest folks, all good men who
knew him, loved that kind-hearted and simple gentleman.
As for Emmy, had she not done her duty? She had her
picture of George for a consolation.
CHAPTER LXVII
Which Contains Births, Marriages, and Deaths
Whatever Becky's private plan might be by which
Dobbin's true love was to be crowned with success, the
little woman thought that the secret might keep, and
indeed, being by no means so much interested about
anybody's welfare as about her own, she had a great
number of things pertaining to herself to consider, and
which concerned her a great deal more than Major
Dobbin's happiness in this life.
She found herself suddenly and unexpectedly in snug
comfortable quarters, surrounded by friends, kindness,
and good-natured simple people such as she had not met
with for many a long day; and, wanderer as she was by
force and inclination, there were moments when rest
was pleasant to her. As the most hardened Arab that
ever careered across the desert over the hump of a
dromedary likes to repose sometimes under the date-
trees by the water, or to come into the cities, walk into
the bazaars, refresh himself in the baths, and say his
prayers in the mosques, before he goes out again
marauding, so Jos's tents and pilau were pleasant to this
little Ishmaelite. She picketed her steed, hung up her
weapons, and warmed herself comfortably by his fire. The
halt in that roving, restless life was inexpressibly soothing
and pleasant to her.
So, pleased herself, she tried with all her might to
please everybody; and we know that she was eminent
and successful as a practitioner in the art of giving
pleasure. As for Jos, even in that little interview in the
garret at the Elephant Inn, she had found means to win
back a great deal of his good-will. In the course of a
week, the civilian was her sworn slave and frantic
