proffered to her for so many faithful years, can't be flung
down and shattered and mended so as to show no scars.
The little heedless tyrant had so destroyed it. No, William
thought again and again, "It was myself I deluded
and persisted in cajoling; had she been worthy of the
love I gave her, she would have returned it long ago. It
was a fond mistake. Isn't the whole course of life made
up of such? And suppose I had won her, should I not
have been disenchanted the day after my victory? Why
pine, or be ashamed of my defeat?" The more he thought
of this long passage of his life, the more clearly he saw
his deception. "I'll go into harness again," he said, "and
do my duty in that state of life in which it has pleased
Heaven to place me. I will see that the buttons of the
recruits are properly bright and that the sergeants make
no mistakes in their accounts. I will dine at mess and
listen to the Scotch surgeon telling his stories. When I
am old and broken, I will go on half-pay, and my old
sisters shall scold me. I have geliebt und gelebet, as the
girl in 'Wallenstein' says. I am done. Pay the bills and get
me a cigar: find out what there is at the play to-night,
Francis; to-morrow we cross by the Batavier." He made
the above speech, whereof Francis only heard the last
two lines, pacing up and down the Boompjes at Rotterdam.
The Batavier was lying in the basin. He could see
the place on the quarter-deck where he and Emmy had
sat on the happy voyage out. What had that little Mrs.
Crawley to say to him? Psha; to-morrow we will put to
sea, and return to England, home, and duty!
After June all the little Court Society of Pumpernickel
used to separate, according to the German plan,
and make for a hundred watering-places, where they
drank at the wells, rode upon donkeys, gambled at the
redoutes if they had money and a mind, rushed with
hundreds of their kind to gourmandise at the tables
d'hote, and idled away the summer. The English
diplomatists went off to Teoplitz and Kissingen, their French
rivals shut up their chancellerie and whisked away to
their darling Boulevard de Gand. The Transparent reigning
family took too to the waters, or retired to their hunting
lodges. Everybody went away having any pretensions
to politeness, and of course, with them, Doctor von
Glauber, the Court Doctor, and his Baroness. The seasons
for the baths were the most productive periods of
the Doctor's practice--he united business with pleasure,
and his chief place of resort was Ostend, which is much
frequented by Germans, and where the Doctor treated
himself and his spouse to what he called a "dib" in the
sea.
His interesting patient, Jos, was a regular milch-cow
to the Doctor, and he easily persuaded the civilian, both
for his own health's sake and that of his charming
sister, which was really very much shattered, to pass the
summer at that hideous seaport town. Emmy did not
care where she went much. Georgy jumped at the idea
of a move. As for Becky, she came as a matter of course
in the fourth place inside of the fine barouche Mr. Jos
had bought, the two domestics being on the box in front.
She might have some misgivings about the friends whom
she should meet at Ostend, and who might be likely to tell
ugly stories--but bah! she was strong enough to hold
her own. She had cast such an anchor in Jos now as
would require a strong storm to shake. That incident
of the picture had finished him. Becky took down
her elephant and put it into the little box which she had
had from Amelia ever so many years ago. Emmy also
came off with her Lares--her two pictures--and the
party, finally, were, lodged in an exceedingly dear and
uncomfortable house at Ostend.
There Amelia began to take baths and get what good
she could from them, and though scores of people of
Becky's acquaintance passed her and cut her, yet Mrs.
Osborne, who walked about with her, and who knew
nobody, was not aware of the treatment experienced by the
friend whom she had chosen so judiciously as a
companion; indeed, Becky never thought fit to tell her what
was passing under her innocent eyes.
Some of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's acquaintances, however,
acknowledged her readily enough,--perhaps more
readily than she would have desired. Among those were
Major Loder (unattached), and Captain Rook (late of
the Rifles), who might be seen any day on the Dike,
smoking and staring at the women, and who speedily got
an introduction to the hospitable board and select circle
of Mr. Joseph Sedley. In fact they would take no denial;
they burst into the house whether Becky was at home
or not, walked into Mrs. Osborne's drawing-room, which
they perfumed with their coats and mustachios, called
Jos "Old buck," and invaded his dinner-table, and
laughed and drank for long hours there.
"What can they mean?" asked Georgy, who did not
like these gentlemen. "I heard the Major say to Mrs.
Crawley yesterday, 'No, no, Becky, you shan't keep the
old buck to yourself. We must have the bones in, or,
dammy, I'll split.' What could the Major mean, Mamma?"
"Major! don't call him Major!" Emmy said. "I'm sure
I can't tell what he meant." His presence and that of his
friend inspired the little lady with intolerable terror and
aversion. They paid her tipsy compliments; they leered
at her over the dinner-table. And the Captain made her
advances that filled her with sickening dismay, nor would
she ever see him unless she had George by her side.
Rebecca, to do her justice, never would let either of
these men remain alone with Amelia; the Major was
disengaged too, and swore he would be the winner of her.
A couple of ruffians were fighting for this innocent creature,
gambling for her at her own table, and though she
was not aware of the rascals' designs upon her, yet she
felt a horror and uneasiness in their presence and longed
to fly.
She besought, she entreated Jos to go. Not he. He was
slow of movement, tied to his Doctor, and perhaps to
some other leading-strings. At least Becky was not
anxious to go to England.
At last she took a great resolution--made the great
plunge. She wrote off a letter to a friend whom she had
on the other side of the water, a letter about which she
did not speak a word to anybody, which she carried
herself to the post under her shawl; nor was any remark
made about it, only that she looked very much flushed
and agitated when Georgy met her, and she kissed him,
and hung over him a great deal that night. She did not
come out of her room after her return from her walk.
Becky thought it was Major Loder and the Captain who
frightened her.
"She mustn't stop here," Becky reasoned with herself.
"She must go away, the silly little fool. She is still
whimpering after that gaby of a husband--dead (and
served right!) these fifteen years. She shan't marry either
of these men. It's too bad of Loder. No; she shall marry
the bamboo cane, I'll settle it this very night."
So Becky took a cup of tea to Amelia in her private
apartment and found that lady in the company of her
miniatures, and in a most melancholy and nervous
condition. She laid down the cup of tea.
"Thank you," said Amelia.
"Listen to me, Amelia," said Becky, marching up and
down the room before the other and surveying her with
a sort of contemptuous kindness. "I want to talk to you.
You must go away from here and from the impertinences
of these men. I won't have you harassed by them: and
they will insult you if you stay. I tell you they are rascals:
men fit to send to the hulks. Never mind how I know
them. I know everybody. Jos can't protect you; he is too
weak and wants a protector himself. You are no more fit
to live in the world than a baby in arms. You must marry,
or you and your precious boy will go to ruin. You must
have a husband, you fool; and one of the best gentlemen
I ever saw has offered you a hundred times, and you have
rejected him, you silly, heartless, ungrateful little
creature!"
"I tried--I tried my best, indeed I did, Rebecca," said
Amelia deprecatingly, "but I couldn't forget--"; and she
finished the sentence by looking up at the portrait.
"Couldn't forget HIM!" cried out Becky, "that selfish
humbug, that low-bred cockney dandy, that padded
booby, who had neither wit, nor manners, nor heart, and
was no more to be compared to your friend with the
bamboo cane than you are to Queen Elizabeth. Why,
the man was weary of you, and would have jilted you, but
that Dobbin forced him to keep his word. He owned it
to me. He never cared for you. He used to sneer about
you to me, time after time, and made love to me the
week after he married you."
"It's false! It's false! Rebecca," cried out Amelia,
starting up.
"Look there, you fool," Becky said, still with provoking
good humour, and taking a little paper out of her
belt, she opened it and flung it into Emmy's lap. "You
know his handwriting. He wrote that to me--wanted me
to run away with him--gave it me under your nose, the
day before he was shot--and served him right!" Becky
repeated.
Emmy did not hear her; she was looking at the letter.
It was that which George had put into the bouquet and
given to Becky on the night of the Duchess of Richmond's
ball. It was as she said: the foolish young man
had asked her to fly.
Emmy's head sank down, and for almost the last time
in which she shall be called upon to weep in this history,
she commenced that work. Her head fell to her bosom, and
her hands went up to her eyes; and there for a while, she
gave way to her emotions, as Becky stood on and
regarded her. Who shall analyse those tears and say
whether they were sweet or bitter? Was she most grieved
because the idol of her life was tumbled down and
shivered at her feet, or indignant that her love had been so
despised, or glad because the barrier was removed which
modesty had placed between her and a new, a real affection?
"There is nothing to forbid me now," she thought.
"I may love him with all my heart now. Oh, I will, I will,
if he will but let me and forgive me." I believe it was this
feeling rushed over all the others which agitated that
gentle little bosom.
Indeed, she did not cry so much as Becky expected--
the other soothed and kissed her--a rare mark of
sympathy with Mrs. Becky. She treated Emmy like a child
and patted her head. "And now let us get pen and ink
and write to him to come this minute," she said.
"I--I wrote to him this morning," Emmy said, blushing
exceedingly. Becky screamed with laughter--"Un
biglietto," she sang out with Rosina, "eccolo qua!"--the
whole house echoed with her shrill singing.
Two mornings after this little scene, although the day
was rainy and gusty, and Amelia had had an exceedingly
wakeful night, listening to the wind roaring, and pitying
all travellers by land and by water, yet she got up early
and insisted upon taking a walk on the Dike with Georgy;
and there she paced as the rain beat into her face, and
she looked out westward across the dark sea line and
over the swollen billows which came tumbling and frothing
to the shore. Neither spoke much, except now and
then, when the boy said a few words to his timid
companion, indicative of sympathy and protection.
"I hope he won't cross in such weather," Emmy said.
"I bet ten to one he does," the boy answered. "Look,
Mother, there's the smoke of the steamer." It was that
signal, sure enough.
But though the steamer was under way, he might not
be on board; he might not have got the letter; he might
not choose to come. A hundred fears poured one over the
other into the little heart, as fast as the waves on to the
Dike.
The boat followed the smoke into sight. Georgy had a
dandy telescope and got the vessel under view in the most
skilful manner. And he made appropriate nautical
comments upon the manner of the approach of the steamer
as she came nearer and nearer, dipping and rising in the
water. The signal of an English steamer in sight went
fluttering up to the mast on the pier. I daresay Mrs.
Amelia's heart was in a similar flutter.
Emmy tried to look through the telescope over
George's shoulder, but she could make nothing of it.
She only saw a black eclipse bobbing up and down
before her eyes.
George took the glass again and raked the vessel.
"How she does pitch!" he said. "There goes a wave slap
over her bows. There's only two people on deck besides
the steersman. There's a man lying down, and a--chap
in a--cloak with a--Hooray!--it's Dob, by Jingo!"
He clapped to the telescope and flung his arms round
his mother. As for that lady, let us say what she did in
the words of a favourite poet--"Dakruoen gelasasa." She
was sure it was William. It could be no other. What she
had said about hoping that he would not come was all
hypocrisy. Of course he would come; what could he do
else but come? She knew he would come.
The ship came swiftly nearer and nearer. As they went
in to meet her at the landing-place at the quay, Emmy's
knees trembled so that she scarcely could run. She would
have liked to kneel down and say her prayers of thanks
there. Oh, she thought, she would be all her life saying
them!
It was such a bad day that as the vessel came alongside
of the quay there were no idlers abroad, scarcely
even a commissioner on the look out for the few
passengers in the steamer. That young scapegrace George
