had fled too, and as the gentleman in the old cloak lined
with red stuff stepped on to the shore, there was scarcely
any one present to see what took place, which was briefly
this:
A lady in a dripping white bonnet and shawl, with her
two little hands out before her, went up to him, and in
the next minute she had altogether disappeared under the
folds of the old cloak, and was kissing one of his hands
with all her might; whilst the other, I suppose, was
engaged in holding her to his heart (which her head just
about reached) and in preventing her from tumbling
down. She was murmuring something about--forgive--
dear William--dear, dear, dearest friend--kiss, kiss, kiss,
and so forth--and in fact went on under the cloak in an
absurd manner.
When Emmy emerged from it, she still kept tight hold
of one of William's hands, and looked up in his face. It
was full of sadness and tender love and pity. She
understood its reproach and hung down her head.
"It was time you sent for me, dear Amelia," he said.
"You will never go again, William?"
"No, never," he answered, and pressed the dear little
soul once more to his heart.
As they issued out of the custom-house precincts,
Georgy broke out on them, with his telescope up to his
eye, and a loud laugh of welcome; he danced round the
couple and performed many facetious antics as he led
them up to the house. Jos wasn't up yet; Becky not
visible (though she looked at them through the blinds).
Georgy ran off to see about breakfast. Emmy, whose
shawl and bonnet were off in the passage in the hands of
Mrs. Payne, now went to undo the clasp of William's
cloak, and--we will, if you please, go with George, and
look after breakfast for the Colonel. The vessel is in port.
He has got the prize he has been trying for all his life.
The bird has come in at last. There it is with its head on
his shoulder, billing and cooing close up to his heart,
with soft outstretched fluttering wings. This is what he
has asked for every day and hour for eighteen years. This
is what he pined after. Here it is--the summit, the end--
the last page of the third volume. Good-bye, Colonel--
God bless you, honest William!--Farewell, dear Amelia
--Grow green again, tender little parasite, round the
rugged old oak to which you cling!
Perhaps it was compunction towards the kind and
simple creature, who had been the first in life to defend
her, perhaps it was a dislike to all such sentimental scenes
--but Rebecca, satisfied with her part in the transaction,
never presented herself before Colonel Dobbin and the
lady whom he married. "Particular business," she said,
took her to Bruges, whither she went, and only Georgy
and his uncle were present at the marriage ceremony.
When it was over, and Georgy had rejoined his parents,
Mrs. Becky returned (just for a few days) to comfort the
solitary bachelor, Joseph Sedley. He preferred a
continental life, he said, and declined to join in housekeeping
with his sister and her husband.
Emmy was very glad in her heart to think that she
had written to her husband before she read or knew of
that letter of George's. "I knew it all along," William
said; "but could I use that weapon against the poor
fellow's memory? It was that which made me suffer so
when you--"
"Never speak of that day again," Emmy cried out, so
contrite and humble that William turned off the
conversation by his account of Glorvina and dear old Peggy
O'Dowd, with whom he was sitting when the letter of
recall reached him. "If you hadn't sent for me," he added
with a laugh, "who knows what Glorvina's name might
be now?"
At present it is Glorvina Posky (now Mrs. Major
Posky); she took him on the death of his first wife,
having resolved never to marry out of the regiment. Lady
O'Dowd is also so attached to it that, she says, if anything
were to happen to Mick, bedad she'd come back
and marry some of 'em. But the Major-General is quite
well and lives in great splendour at O'Dowdstown, with
a pack of beagles, and (with the exception of perhaps
their neighbour, Hoggarty of Castle Hoggarty) he is the
first man of his county. Her Ladyship still dances jigs, and
insisted on standing up with the Master of the Horse at
the Lord Lieutenant's last ball. Both she and Glorvina
declared that Dobbin had used the latter SHEAMFULLY, but
Posky falling in, Glorvina was consoled, and a beautiful
turban from Paris appeased the wrath of Lady O'Dowd.
When Colonel Dobbin quitted the service, which he did
immediately after his marriage, he rented a pretty little
country place in Hampshire, not far from Queen's Crawley,
where, after the passing of the Reform Bill, Sir Pitt
and his family constantly resided now. All idea of a
Peerage was out of the question, the Baronet's two seats
in Parliament being lost. He was both out of pocket and
out of spirits by that catastrophe, failed in his health,
and prophesied the speedy ruin of the Empire.
Lady Jane and Mrs. Dobbin became great friends--
there was a perpetual crossing of pony-chaises between
the Hall and the Evergreens, the Colonel's place (rented
of his friend Major Ponto, who was abroad with his
family). Her Ladyship was godmother to Mrs. Dobbin's child,
which bore her name, and was christened by the Rev.
James Crawley, who succeeded his father in the living:
and a pretty close friendship subsisted between the two
lads, George and Rawdon, who hunted and shot together
in the vacations, were both entered of the same college
at Cambridge, and quarrelled with each other about Lady
Jane's daughter, with whom they were both, of course,
in love. A match between George and that young lady was
long a favourite scheme of both the matrons, though I
have heard that Miss Crawley herself inclined towards
her cousin.
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's name was never mentioned by
either family. There were reasons why all should be silent
regarding her. For wherever Mr. Joseph Sedley went, she
travelled likewise, and that infatuated man seemed to be
entirely her slave. The Colonel's lawyers informed him
that his brother-in-law had effected a heavy insurance
upon his life, whence it was probable that he had been
raising money to discharge debts. He procured prolonged
leave of absence from the East India House, and indeed,
his infirmities were daily increasing.
On hearing the news about the insurance, Amelia, in
a good deal of alarm, entreated her husband to go to
Brussels, where Jos then was, and inquire into the state
of his affairs. The Colonel quitted home with reluctance
(for he was deeply immersed in his History of the
Punjaub which still occupies him, and much alarmed
about his little daughter, whom he idolizes, and who was
just recovering from the chicken-pox) and went to Brussels
and found Jos living at one of the enormous hotels
in that city. Mrs. Crawley, who had her carriage, gave
entertainments, and lived in a very genteel manner,
occupied another suite of apartments in the same hotel.
The Colonel, of course, did not desire to see that lady,
or even think proper to notify his arrival at Brussels,
except privately to Jos by a message through his valet. Jos
begged the Colonel to come and see him that night, when
Mrs. Crawley would be at a soiree, and when they could
meet alone. He found his brother-in-law in a condition of
pitiable infirmity--and dreadfully afraid of Rebecca,
though eager in his praises of her. She tended him through
a series of unheard-of illnesses with a fidelity most
admirable. She had been a daughter to him. "But--but--
oh, for God's sake, do come and live near me, and--and
--see me sometimes," whimpered out the unfortunate
man.
The Colonel's brow darkened at this. "We can't, Jos,"
he said. "Considering the circumstances, Amelia can't
visit you."
"I swear to you--I swear to you on the Bible," gasped
out Joseph, wanting to kiss the book, "that she is as
innocent as a child, as spotless as your own wife."
"It may be so," said the Colonel gloomily, "but Emmy
can't come to you. Be a man, Jos: break off this
disreputable connection. Come home to your family. We hear
your affairs are involved."
"Involved!" cried Jos. "Who has told such calumnies?
All my money is placed out most advantageously. Mrs.
Crawley--that is--I mean--it is laid out to the best
interest."
"You are not in debt, then? Why did you insure your
life?"
"I thought--a little present to her--in case anything
happened; and you know my health is so delicate--common
gratitude you know--and I intend to leave all my
money to you--and I can spare it out of my income,
indeed I can," cried out William's weak brother-in-law.
The Colonel besought Jos to fly at once--to go back to
India, whither Mrs. Crawley could not follow him; to
do anything to break off a connection which might have
the most fatal consequences to him.
Jos clasped his hands and cried, "He would go back to
India. He would do anything, only he must have time:
they mustn't say anything to Mrs. Crawley--she'd--she'd
kill me if she knew it. You don't know what a terrible
woman she is," the poor wretch said.
"Then, why not come away with me?" said Dobbin in
reply; but Jos had not the courage. "He would see
Dobbin again in the morning; he must on no account say that
he had been there. He must go now. Becky might come
in." And Dobbin quitted him, full of forebodings.
He never saw Jos more. Three months afterwards
Joseph Sedley died at Aix-la-Chapelle. It was found that
all his property had been muddled away in speculations,
and was represented by valueless shares in different
bubble companies. All his available assets were the two
thousand pounds for which his life was insured, and which
were left equally between his beloved "sister Amelia,
wife of, &c., and his friend and invaluable attendant
during sickness, Rebecca, wife of Lieutenant-Colonel
Rawdon Crawley, C.B.," who was appointed administratrix.
The solicitor of the insurance company swore it was
the blackest case that ever had come before him, talked
of sending a commission to Aix to examine into the death,
and the Company refused payment of the policy. But
Mrs., or Lady Crawley, as she styled herself, came to
town at once (attended with her solicitors, Messrs. Burke,
Thurtell, and Hayes, of Thavies Inn) and dared the
Company to refuse the payment. They invited examination,
they declared that she was the object of an infamous
conspiracy, which had been pursuing her all through life,
and triumphed finally. The money was paid, and her
character established, but Colonel Dobbin sent back his share
of the legacy to the insurance office and rigidly declined to
hold any communication with Rebecca
She never was Lady Crawley, though she continued so
to call herself. His Excellency Colonel Rawdon Crawley
died of yellow fever at Coventry Island, most deeply
beloved and deplored, and six weeks before the demise of
his brother, Sir Pitt. The estate consequently devolved
upon the present Sir Rawdon Crawley, Bart.
He, too, has declined to see his mother, to whom he
makes a liberal allowance, and who, besides, appears to
be very wealthy. The Baronet lives entirely at Queen's
Crawley, with Lady Jane and her daughter, whilst Rebecca,
Lady Crawley, chiefly hangs about Bath and Cheltenham,
where a very strong party of excellent people
consider her to be a most injured woman. She has her
enemies. Who has not? Her life is her answer to them.
She busies herself in works of piety. She goes to church,
and never without a footman. Her name is in all the
Charity Lists. The destitute orange-girl, the neglected
washerwoman, the distressed muffin-man find in her a
fast and generous friend. She is always having stalls at
Fancy Fairs for the benefit of these hapless beings. Emmy,
her children, and the Colonel, coming to London some
time back, found themselves suddenly before her at one
of these fairs. She cast down her eyes demurely and
smiled as they started away from her; Emmy scurrying
off on the arm of George (now grown a dashing young
gentleman) and the Colonel seizing up his little Janey,
of whom he is fonder than of anything in the world--
fonder even than of his History of the Punjaub.
"Fonder than he is of me," Emmy thinks with a sigh
But he never said a word to Amelia that was not kind and
gentle, or thought of a want of hers that he did not try to
gratify.
Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! which of us is happy in this
world? Which of us has his desire? or, having it, is satisfied?
--come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets,
for our play is played out.
End
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