been invited to Rebecca's parties; for he was too timid
to play much, and his presence bored George and Rawdon
equally, who neither of them, perhaps, liked to have a
witness of the amusements in which the pair chose to
indulge. "Ah!" thought Jos, "now she wants me she
comes to me. When there is nobody else in the way she
can think about old Joseph Sedley!" But besides these
doubts he felt flattered at the idea Rebecca expressed
of his courage.
He blushed a good deal, and put on an air of importance.
"I should like to see the action," he said. "Every
man of any spirit would, you know. I've seen a little
service in India, but nothing on this grand scale."
"You men would sacrifice anything for a pleasure,"
Rebecca answered. "Captain Crawley left me this morning
as gay as if he were going to a hunting party. What
does he care? What do any of you care for the agonies
and tortures of a poor forsaken woman? (I wonder
whether he could really have been going to the troops,
this great lazy gourmand?) Oh! dear Mr. Sedley, I have
come to you for comfort--for consolation. I have been
on my knees all the morning. I tremble at the frightful
danger into which our husbands, our friends, our brave
troops and allies, are rushing. And I come here for shelter,
and find another of my friends--the last remaining to
me--bent upon plunging into the dreadful scene!"
"My dear madam," Jos replied, now beginning to be
quite soothed, "don't be alarmed. I only said I should
like to go--what Briton would not? But my duty keeps
me here: I can't leave that poor creature in the next
room." And he pointed with his finger to the door of
the chamber in which Amelia was.
"Good noble brother!" Rebecca said, putting her
handkerchief to her eyes, and smelling the eau-de-cologne
with which it was scented. "I have done you injustice:
you have got a heart. I thought you had not."
"O, upon my honour!" Jos said, making a motion as
if he would lay his hand upon the spot in question. "You
do me injustice, indeed you do--my dear Mrs. Crawley."
"I do, now your heart is true to your sister. But I
remember two years ago--when it was false to me!"
Rebecca said, fixing her eyes upon him for an instant, and
then turning away into the window.
Jos blushed violently. That organ which he was
accused by Rebecca of not possessing began to thump
tumultuously. He recalled the days when he had fled from
her, and the passion which had once inflamed him--the
days when he had driven her in his curricle: when she
had knit the green purse for him: when he had sate
enraptured gazing at her white arms and bright eyes.
"I know you think me ungrateful," Rebecca continued,
coming out of the window, and once more looking at
him and addressing him in a low tremulous voice. "Your
coldness, your averted looks, your manner when we have
met of late--when I came in just now, all proved it to
me. But were there no reasons why I should avoid you?
Let your own heart answer that question. Do you think
my husband was too much inclined to welcome you?
The only unkind words I have ever had from him (I
will do Captain Crawley that justice) have been about
you--and most cruel, cruel words they were."
"Good gracious! what have I done?" asked Jos in a
flurry of pleasure and perplexity; "what have I done--
to--to--?"
"Is jealousy nothing?" said Rebecca. "He makes me
miserable about you. And whatever it might have been
once--my heart is all his. I am innocent now. Am I
not, Mr. Sedley?"
All Jos's blood tingled with delight, as he surveyed
this victim to his attractions. A few adroit words, one
or two knowing tender glances of the eyes, and his heart
was inflamed again and his doubts and suspicions
forgotten. From Solomon downwards, have not wiser men
than he been cajoled and befooled by women? "If the
worst comes to the worst," Becky thought, "my retreat
is secure; and I have a right-hand seat in the barouche."
There is no knowing into what declarations of love
and ardour the tumultuous passions of Mr. Joseph
might have led him, if Isidor the valet had not made
his reappearance at this minute, and begun to busy
himself about the domestic affairs. Jos, who was just going
to gasp out an avowal, choked almost with the emotion
that he was obliged to restrain. Rebecca too bethought
her that it was time she should go in and comfort her
dearest Amelia. "Au revoir," she said, kissing her hand
to Mr. Joseph, and tapped gently at the door of his
sister's apartment. As she entered and closed the door
on herself, he sank down in a chair, and gazed and
sighed and puffed portentously. "That coat is very tight
for Milor," Isidor said, still having his eye on the frogs;
but his master heard him not: his thoughts were
elsewhere: now glowing, maddening, upon the contemplation
of the enchanting Rebecca: anon shrinking guiltily
before the vision of the jealous Rawdon Crawley, with his
curling, fierce mustachios, and his terrible duelling pistols
loaded and cocked.
Rebecca's appearance struck Amelia with terror, and
made her shrink back. It recalled her to the world and
the remembrance of yesterday. In the overpowering fears
about to-morrow she had forgotten Rebecca--jealousy--
everything except that her husband was gone and was
in danger. Until this dauntless worldling came in and
broke the spell, and lifted the latch, we too have
forborne to enter into that sad chamber. How long had that
poor girl been on her knees! what hours of speechless
prayer and bitter prostration had she passed there! The
war-chroniclers who write brilliant stories of fight and
triumph scarcely tell us of these. These are too mean
parts of the pageant: and you don't hear widows' cries
or mothers' sobs in the midst of the shouts and jubilation
in the great Chorus of Victory. And yet when was
the time that such have not cried out: heart-broken,
humble protestants, unheard in the uproar of the triumph!
After the first movement of terror in Amelia's mind
--when Rebecca's green eyes lighted upon her, and
rustling in her fresh silks and brilliant ornaments, the latter
tripped up with extended arms to embrace her--a feeling
of anger succeeded, and from being deadly pale before,
her face flushed up red, and she returned Rebecca's look
after a moment with a steadiness which surprised and
somewhat abashed her rival.
"Dearest Amelia, you are very unwell," the visitor said,
putting forth her hand to take Amelia's. "What is it?
I could not rest until I knew how you were."
Amelia drew back her hand--never since her life
began had that gentle soul refused to believe or to
answer any demonstration of good-will or affection. But
she drew back her hand, and trembled all over. "Why
are you here, Rebecca?" she said, still looking at her
solemnly with her large eyes. These glances troubled her
visitor.
"She must have seen him give me the letter at the
ball," Rebecca thought. "Don't be agitated, dear Amelia,"
she said, looking down. "I came but to see if I could--
if you were well."
"Are you well?" said Amelia. "I dare say you are.
You don't love your husband. You would not be here if
you did. Tell me, Rebecca, did I ever do you anything
but kindness?"
"Indeed, Amelia, no," the other said, still hanging
down her head.
"When you were quite poor, who was it that befriended
you? Was I not a sister to you? You saw us
all in happier days before he married me. I was all in
all then to him; or would he have given up his fortune,
his family, as he nobly did to make me happy? Why did
you come between my love and me? Who sent you to
separate those whom God joined, and take my darling's
heart from me-- my own husband? Do you think you
could I love him as I did? His love was everything to me.
You knew it, and wanted to rob me of it. For shame,
Rebecca; bad and wicked woman--false friend and false
wife."
"Amelia, I protest before God, I have done my
husband no wrong," Rebecca said, turning from her.
"Have you done me no wrong, Rebecca? You did not
succeed, but you tried. Ask your heart if you did not."
She knows nothing, Rebecca thought.
"He came back to me. I knew he would. I knew that
no falsehood, no flattery, could keep him from me long.
I knew he would come. I prayed so that he should."
The poor girl spoke these words with a spirit and
volubility which Rebecca had never before seen in her,
and before which the latter was quite dumb. "But what
have I done to you," she continued in a more pitiful tone,
"that you should try and take him from me? I had him
but for six weeks. You might have spared me those,
Rebecca. And yet, from the very first day of our wedding,
you came and blighted it. Now he is gone, are you come
to see how unhappy I am?" she continued. "You made
me wretched enough for the past fortnight: you might
have spared me to-day."
"I--I never came here," interposed Rebecca, with
unlucky truth.
"No. You didn't come. You took him away. Are you
come to fetch him from me?" she continued in a wilder
tone. "He was here, but he is gone now. There on that
very sofa he sate. Don't touch it. We sate and talked
there. I was on his knee, and my arms were round his
neck, and we said 'Our Father.' Yes, he was here: and
they came and took him away, but he promised me to
come back."
"He will come back, my dear," said Rebecca, touched
in spite of herself.
"Look," said Amelia, "this is his sash--isn't it a pretty
colour?'' and she took up the fringe and kissed it. She
had tied it round her waist at some part of the day. She
had forgotten her anger, her jealousy, the very presence
of her rival seemingly. For she walked silently and almost
with a smile on her face, towards the bed, and began to
smooth down George's pillow.
Rebecca walked, too, silently away. "How is Amelia?"
asked Jos, who still held his position in the chair.
"There should be somebody with her," said Rebecca.
"I think she is very unwell": and she went away with a
very grave face, refusing Mr. Sedley's entreaties that she
would stay and partake of the early dinner which he had
ordered.
Rebecca was of a good-natured and obliging disposition;
and she liked Amelia rather than otherwise. Even
her hard words, reproachful as they were, were
complimentary--the groans of a person stinging under defeat.
Meeting Mrs. O'Dowd, whom the Dean's sermons had
by no means comforted, and who was walking very
disconsolately in the Parc, Rebecca accosted the latter,
rather to the surprise of the Major's wife, who was not
accustomed to such marks of politeness from Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley, and informing her that poor little Mrs.
Osborne was in a desperate condition, and almost mad
with grief, sent off the good-natured Irishwoman straight
to see if she could console her young favourite.
"I've cares of my own enough," Mrs. O'Dowd said,
gravely, "and I thought poor Amelia would be little
wanting for company this day. But if she's so bad as you
say, and you can't attend to her, who used to be so
fond of her, faith I'll see if I can be of service. And so
good marning to ye, Madam"; with which speech and a
toss of her head, the lady of the repayther took a
farewell of Mrs. Crawley, whose company she by no means
courted.
Becky watched her marching off, with a smile on her
lip. She had the keenest sense of humour, and the
Parthian look which the retreating Mrs. O'Dowd flung
over her shoulder almost upset Mrs. Crawley's gravity.
"My service to ye, me fine Madam, and I'm glad to see
ye so cheerful," thought Peggy. "It's not YOU that will cry
your eyes out with grief, anyway." And with this she
passed on, and speedily found her way to Mrs. Osborne's
lodgings.
The poor soul was still at the bedside, where Rebecca
had left her, and stood almost crazy with grief. The
Major's wife, a stronger-minded woman, endeavoured her
best to comfort her young friend. "You must bear up,
Amelia, dear," she said kindly, "for he mustn't find you
ill when he sends for you after the victory. It's not you
are the only woman that are in the hands of God this
day."
"I know that. I am very wicked, very weak," Amelia
said. She knew her own weakness well enough. The
presence of the more resolute friend checked it, however; and
she was the better of this control and company. They
went on till two o'clock; their hearts were with the column
as it marched farther and farther away. Dreadful doubt
and anguish--prayers and fears and griefs unspeakable--
followed the regiment. It was the women's tribute to the
war. It taxes both alike, and takes the blood of the men,
and the tears of the women.
At half-past two, an event occurred of daily importance
to Mr. Joseph: the dinner-hour arrived. Warriors
may fight and perish, but he must dine. He came into
Amelia's room to see if he could coax her to share that
meal. "Try," said he; "the soup is very good. Do try,
Emmy," and he kissed her hand. Except when she was
married, he had not done so much for years before. "You
are very good and kind, Joseph," she said. "Everybody
is, but, if you please, I will stay in my room to-day."
