childhood to her present age, so sweet, so innocent,
so charmingly simple, and artlessly fond and tender.
What a pang it was to lose all that: to have had it and
not prized it! A thousand homely scenes and recollections
crowded on him--in which he always saw her good
and beautiful. And for himself, he blushed with remorse
and shame, as the remembrance of his own selfishness
and indifference contrasted with that perfect purity. For
a while, glory, war, everything was forgotten, and the
pair of friends talked about her only.
"Where are they?" Osborne asked, after a long talk,
and a long pause--and, in truth, with no little shame at
thinking that he had taken no steps to follow her. "Where
are they? There's no address to the note."
Dobbin knew. He had not merely sent the piano; but
had written a note to Mrs. Sedley, and asked permission
to come and see her--and he had seen her, and Amelia
too, yesterday, before he came down to Chatham; and,
what is more, he had brought that farewell letter and
packet which had so moved them.
The good-natured fellow had found Mrs. Sedley only
too willing to receive him, and greatly agitated by the
arrival of the piano, which, as she conjectured, MUST have
come from George, and was a signal of amity on his
part. Captain Dobbin did not correct this error of the
worthy lady, but listened to all her story of complaints
and misfortunes with great sympathy--condoled with
her losses and privations, and agreed in reprehending the
cruel conduct of Mr. Osborne towards his first benefactor.
When she had eased her overflowing bosom somewhat,
and poured forth many of her sorrows, he had the
courage to ask actually to see Amelia, who was above in
her room as usual, and whom her mother led trembling
downstairs.
Her appearance was so ghastly, and her look of despair
so pathetic, that honest William Dobbin was frightened
as he beheld it; and read the most fatal forebodings in
that pale fixed face. After sitting in his company a minute
or two, she put the packet into his hand, and said,
"Take this to Captain Osborne, if you please, and--and I
hope he's quite well--and it was very kind of you to
come and see us--and we like our new house very much.
And I--I think I'll go upstairs, Mamma, for I'm not very
strong." And with this, and a curtsey and a smile, the
poor child went her way. The mother, as she led her up,
cast back looks of anguish towards Dobbin. The good
fellow wanted no such appeal. He loved her himself too
fondly for that. Inexpressible grief, and pity, and terror
pursued him, and he came away as if he was a criminal
after seeing her.
When Osborne heard that his friend had found her,
he made hot and anxious inquiries regarding the poor
child. How was she? How did she look? What did she
say? His comrade took his hand, and looked him in the
face.
"George, she's dying," William Dobbin said--and could
speak no more.
There was a buxom Irish servant-girl, who performed
all the duties of the little house where the Sedley family
had found refuge: and this girl had in vain, on many
previous days, striven to give Amelia aid or consolation.
Emmy was much too sad to answer, or even to be aware
of the attempts the other was making in her favour.
Four hours after the talk between Dobbin and Osborne,
this servant-maid came into Amelia's room, where she
sate as usual, brooding silently over her letters--her
little treasures. The girl, smiling, and looking arch and
happy, made many trials to attract poor Emmy's
attention, who, however, took no heed of her.
"Miss Emmy," said the girl.
"I'm coming," Emmy said, not looking round.
"There's a message," the maid went on. "There's
something--somebody--sure, here's a new letter for you--
don't be reading them old ones any more." And she gave
her a letter, which Emmy took, and read.
"I must see you," the letter said. "Dearest Emmy--
dearest love--dearest wife, come to me."
George and her mother were outside, waiting until she
had read the letter.
CHAPTER XXX
"The Girl I Left Behind Me"
We do not claim to rank among the military novelists.
Our place is with the non-combatants. When the decks
are cleared for action we go below and wait meekly. We
should only be in the way of the manoeuvres that the
gallant fellows are performing overhead. We shall go no
farther with the --th than to the city gate: and leaving
Major O'Dowd to his duty, come back to the Major's
wife, and the ladies and the baggage.
Now the Major and his lady, who had not been invited
to the ball at which in our last chapter other of our
friends figured, had much more time to take their
wholesome natural rest in bed, than was accorded to people
who wished to enjoy pleasure as well as to do duty. "It's
my belief, Peggy, my dear," said he, as he placidly pulled
his nightcap over his ears, "that there will be such a ball
danced in a day or two as some of 'em has never heard
the chune of"; and he was much more happy to retire to
rest after partaking of a quiet tumbler, than to figure at
any other sort of amusement. Peggy, for her part, would
have liked to have shown her turban and bird of
paradise at the ball, but for the information which her
husband had given her, and which made her very grave.
"I'd like ye wake me about half an hour before the assembly
beats," the Major said to his lady. "Call me at half-
past one, Peggy dear, and see me things is ready. May be
I'll not come back to breakfast, Mrs. O'D." With which
words, which signified his opinion that the regiment would
march the next morning, the Major ceased talking, and
fell asleep.
Mrs. O'Dowd, the good housewife, arrayed in curl
papers and a camisole, felt that her duty was to act, and
not to sleep, at this juncture. "Time enough for that," she
said, "when Mick's gone"; and so she packed his travelling
valise ready for the march, brushed his cloak, his cap, and
other warlike habiliments, set them out in order for him;
and stowed away in the cloak pockets a light package of
portable refreshments, and a wicker-covered flask or
pocket-pistol, containing near a pint of a remarkably
sound Cognac brandy, of which she and the Major approved
very much; and as soon as the hands of the
"repayther" pointed to half-past one, and its interior
arrangements (it had a tone quite equal to a cathaydral, its
fair owner considered) knelled forth that fatal hour, Mrs.
O'Dowd woke up her Major, and had as comfortable a
cup of coffee prepared for him as any made that morning
in Brussels. And who is there will deny that this worthy
lady's preparations betokened affection as much as the
fits of tears and hysterics by which more sensitive females
exhibited their love, and that their partaking of this coffee,
which they drank together while the bugles were sounding
the turn-out and the drums beating in the various quarters
of the town, was not more useful and to the purpose than
the outpouring of any mere sentiment could be? The
consequence was, that the Major appeared on parade quite
trim, fresh, and alert, his well-shaved rosy countenance,
as he sate on horseback, giving cheerfulness and confidence
to the whole corps. All the officers saluted her
when the regiment marched by the balcony on which this
brave woman stood, and waved them a cheer as they
passed; and I daresay it was not from want of courage,
but from a sense of female delicacy and propriety, that
she refrained from leading the gallant --th personally
into action.
On Sundays, and at periods of a solemn nature, Mrs.
O'Dowd used to read with great gravity out of a large
volume of her uncle the Dean's sermons. It had been of
great comfort to her on board the transport as they were
coming home, and were very nearly wrecked, on their
return from the West Indies. After the regiment's
departure she betook herself to this volume for meditation;
perhaps she did not understand much of what she was
reading, and her thoughts were elsewhere: but the sleep
project, with poor Mick's nightcap there on the pillow,
was quite a vain one. So it is in the world. Jack or Donald
marches away to glory with his knapsack on his shoulder,
stepping out briskly to the tune of "The Girl I Left Behind
Me." It is she who remains and suffers--and has the
leisure to think, and brood, and remember.
Knowing how useless regrets are, and how the indulgence
of sentiment only serves to make people more miserable,
Mrs. Rebecca wisely determined to give way to no
vain feelings of sorrow, and bore the parting from her
husband with quite a Spartan equanimity. Indeed Captain
Rawdon himself was much more affected at the leave-
taking than the resolute little woman to whom he bade
farewell. She had mastered this rude coarse nature;
and he loved and worshipped her with all his faculties of
regard and admiration. In all his life he had never been so
happy, as, during the past few months, his wife had made
him. All former delights of turf, mess, hunting-field, and
gambling-table; all previous loves and courtships of
milliners, opera-dancers, and the like easy triumphs of the
clumsy military Adonis, were quite insipid when
compared to the lawful matrimonial pleasures which of late he
had enjoyed. She had known perpetually how to divert
him; and he had found his house and her society a
thousand times more pleasant than any place or company
which he had ever frequented from his childhood until
now. And he cursed his past follies and extravagances,
and bemoaned his vast outlying debts above all, which
must remain for ever as obstacles to prevent his wife's
advancement in the world. He had often groaned over
these in midnight conversations with Rebecca, although as
a bachelor they had never given him any disquiet. He
himself was struck with this phenomenon. "Hang it,"
he would say (or perhaps use a still stronger expression
out of his simple vocabulary), "before I was married I
didn't care what bills I put my name to, and so long as
Moses would wait or Levy would renew for three months,
I kept on never minding. But since I'm married, except
renewing, of course, I give you my honour I've not
touched a bit of stamped paper."
Rebecca always knew how to conjure away these
moods of melancholy. "Why, my stupid love," she would
say, "we have not done with your aunt yet. If she fails us,
isn't there what you call the Gazette? or, stop, when your
uncle Bute's life drops, I have another scheme. The living
has always belonged to the younger brother, and why
shouldn't you sell out and go into the Church?" The idea
of this conversion set Rawdon into roars of laughter:
you might have heard the explosion through the hotel at
midnight, and the haw-haws of the great dragoon's voice.
General Tufto heard him from his quarters on the first
floor above them; and Rebecca acted the scene with great
spirit, and preached Rawdon's first sermon, to the
immense delight of the General at breakfast.
But these were mere by-gone days and talk. When the
final news arrived that the campaign was opened, and the
troops were to march, Rawdon's gravity became such
that Becky rallied him about it in a manner which rather
hurt the feelings of the Guardsman. "You don't suppose
I'm afraid, Becky, I should think," he said, with a tremor
in his voice. "But I'm a pretty good mark for a shot, and
you see if it brings me down, why I leave one and
perhaps two behind me whom I should wish to provide for,
as I brought 'em into the scrape. It is no laughing matter
that, Mrs. C., anyways."
Rebecca by a hundred caresses and kind words tried
to soothe the feelings of the wounded lover. It was only
when her vivacity and sense of humour got the better of
this sprightly creature (as they would do under most
circumstances of life indeed) that she would break out
with her satire, but she could soon put on a demure face.
"Dearest love," she said, "do you suppose I feel nothing?"
and hastily dashing something from her eyes, she
looked up in her husband's face with a smile.
"Look here," said he. "If I drop, let us see what there
is for you. I have had a pretty good run of luck here, and
here's two hundred and thirty pounds. I have got ten
Napoleons in my pocket. That is as much as I shall want;
for the General pays everything like a prince; and if I'm
hit, why you know I cost nothing. Don't cry, little woman;
I may live to vex you yet. Well, I shan't take either of my
horses, but shall ride the General's grey charger: it's
cheaper, and I told him mine was lame. If I'm done, those
two ought to fetch you something. Grigg offered ninety
for the mare yesterday, before this confounded news
came, and like a fool I wouldn't let her go under the two
o's. Bullfinch will fetch his price any day, only you'd
better sell him in this country, because the dealers have so
many bills of mine, and so I'd rather he shouldn't go
back to England. Your little mare the General gave you
will fetch something, and there's no d--d livery stable
bills here as there are in London," Rawdon added, with a
laugh. "There's that dressing-case cost me two hundred
--that is, I owe two for it; and the gold tops and bottles
must be worth thirty or forty. Please to put THAT up the
spout, ma'am, with my pins, and rings, and watch and
chain, and things. They cost a precious lot of money. Miss
Crawley, I know, paid a hundred down for the chain and
