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 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 christe
ned 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, amp;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.
Virtue is rewarded; A booth in Vanity Fair
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.
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Vanity Fair (illustrated) Page 90
