There never was, since the days of Darius, such a brilliant train of
camp-followers as hung round the train of the Duke of Wellington's
army in the Low Countries, in 1815, and led it dancing and feasting,
as it were, up to the very brink of battle. A certain ball[22] which a
noble duchess gave at Brussels on the 15th of June in the above-named
year is historical. All Brussels had been in a state of excitement
about it; and I have heard from ladies who were in that town at the
period, that the talk and interest of persons of their own sex
regarding the ball was much greater even than in respect of the enemy
in their front. The struggles, intrigues, and prayers to get tickets
were such as only English ladies will employ, in order to gain
admission to the society of the great of their own nation.
[Footnote 21: From "Vanity Fair."]
[Footnote 22: Readers will recall Byron's account of this ball in
"Childe Harold."]
Jos and Mrs. O'Dowd, who were panting to be asked, strove in vain to
procure tickets; but others of our friends were more lucky. For
instance, through the interest of my Lord Bareacres, and as a set-off
for the dinner at the restaurateur's, George got a card for Captain
and Mrs. Osborne; which circumstance greatly elated him. Dobbin, who
was a friend of the general commanding the division in which their
regiment was, came laughing one day to Mrs. Osborne, and displayed a
similar invitation; which made Jos envious, and George wonder how the
deuce he should be getting into society. Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon, finally,
were of course invited, as became the friends of a general commanding
a cavalry brigade.
On the appointed night, George, having commanded new dresses and
ornaments of all sorts for Amelia, drove to the famous ball, where his
wife did not know a single soul. After looking about for Lady
Bareacres,--who cut him, thinking the card was quite enough,--and
after placing Amelia on a bench, he left her to her own cogitations
there; thinking on his own part that he had behaved very handsomely in
getting her new clothes, and bringing her to the ball, where she was
free to amuse herself as she liked. Her thoughts were not the
pleasantest, and nobody except honest Dobbin came to disturb them.
Whilst her appearance was an utter failure (as her husband felt with a
sort of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's _début_ was, on the contrary,
very brilliant. She arrived very late. Her face was radiant; her dress
perfection. In the midst of the great persons assembled, and the
eyeglasses directed to her, Rebecca seemed to be as cool and collected
as when she used to marshal Miss Pinkerton's little girls to church.
Numbers of the men she knew already, and the dandies thronged around
her. As for the ladies, it was whispered among them that Rawdon had
run away with her from out of a convent, and that she was a relation
of the Montmorency family. She spoke French so perfectly that there
might be some truth in this report, and it was agreed that her manners
were fine, and her air _distinguished_. Fifty would-be partners
thronged round her at once, and prest to have the honor to dance with
her. But she said she was engaged, and only going to dance very
little; and made her way at once to the place where Emmy sate quite
unnoticed, and dismally unhappy.
And so, to finish the poor child at once, Mrs. Rawdon ran and greeted
affectionately her dearest Amelia, and began forthwith to patronize
her. She found fault with her friend's dress, and her hair-dresser,
and wondered how she could be so _chaussée_, and vowed that she must
send her _corsetière_ the next morning. She vowed that it was a
delightful ball; that there was everybody that every one knew, and
only a _very_ few nobodies in the whole room. It is a fact that in a
fortnight, and after three dinners in general society, this young
woman had got up the genteel jargon so well that a native could not
speak it better; and it was only from her French being so good, that
you could know that she was not a born woman of fashion.
George, who had left Emmy on the bench on entering the ballroom, very
soon found his way back when Rebecca was by her dear friend's side.
Becky was just lecturing Mrs. Osborne upon the follies which her
husband was committing. "For God's sake, stop him from gambling, my
dear," she said, "or he will ruin himself. He and Rawdon are playing
at cards every night; and you know he is very poor, and Rawdon will
win every shilling from him if he does not take care. Why don't you
prevent him, you little careless creature? Why don't you come to us of
an evening, instead of moping at home with that Captain Dobbin? I dare
say he is _très aimable_; but how can one love a man with feet of such
size? Your husband's feet are darlings--here he comes. Where have you
been, wretch? Here is Emmy crying her eyes out for you. Are you coming
to fetch me for the quadrille?" And she left her bouquet and shawl by
Amelia's side, and tript off with George to dance. Women only know
how to wound so. There is a poison on the tip of the little shafts
which sting a thousand times more than a man's blunter weapon. Our
poor Emmy, who had never hated, never sneered all her life, was
powerless in the hands of her remorseless little enemy.
George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice--how many times Amelia
scarcely knew. She sat quite unnoticed in her corner, except when
Rawdon came up with some words of clumsy conversation; and later in
the evening, when Captain Dobbin made so bold as to bring her
refreshments and sit beside her. He did not like to ask her why she
was so sad; but as a pretext for the tears which were filling her
eyes, she told him that Mrs. Crawley had alarmed her by telling her
that George would go on playing.
"It is curious, when a man is bent upon play, by what clumsy rogues he
will allow himself to be cheated," Dobbin said; and Emmy said
"Indeed." She was thinking of something else. It was not the loss of
the money that grieved her.
At last George came back for Rebecca's shawl and flowers. She was
going away. She did not even condescend to come back and say good-by
to Amelia. The poor girl let her husband come and go without saying a
word, and her head fell on her breast. Dobbin had been called away,
and was whispering deep in conversation with the general of the
division, his friend, and had not seen this last parting. George went
away then with the bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there
lay a note, coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's eye
caught it at once: she had been used to deal with notes in early
life. She put out her hand and took the nosegay. He saw by her eyes as
they met, that she was aware what she would find there. Her husband
hurried her away, still too intent upon his own thoughts, seemingly,
to take note of any marks of recognition which might pass between his
friend and his wife. These were, however, but trifling. Rebecca gave
George her hand with one of her usual quick knowing glances, and made
a curtsey and walked away. George bowed over the hand; said nothing in
reply to a remark of Crawley's,--did not hear it even, his brain was
so throbbing with triumph and excitement; and allowed them to go away
without a word.
His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet scene. It was quite
natural that George should come at Rebecca's request to get her scarf
and flowers,--it was no more than he had done twenty times before in
the course of the last few days; but now it was too much for her.
"William," she said, suddenly clinging to Dobbin, who was near her,
"you've always been very kind to me: I'm--I'm not well. Take me home."
She did not know she called him by his Christian name, as George was
accustomed to do. He went away with her quickly. Her lodgings were
hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without, where everything
seemed to be more astir than even in the ballroom within.
George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife up on his
return from the parties which he frequented, so she went straight to
bed now; but altho she did not sleep, and altho the din and clatter
and the galloping of horsemen was incessant, she never heard any of
these noises, having quite other disturbances to keep her awake.
Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play table and
began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Everything succeeds with
me to-night," he said. But his luck at play--even did not cure him of
his restlessness; and he started up after a while, pocketing his
winnings, and went off to a buffet, where he drank off many bumpers of
wine.
Here, as he was rattling away to the people around him, laughing
loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been to the
card tables to look there for his friend. Dobbin looked as pale and
grave as his comrade was flushed and jovial.
"Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The duke's wine is famous. Give
me some more, you sir;" and he held out a trembling glass for the
liquor.
"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely: "don't drink."
"Drink! there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up your
lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you."
Dobbin went up and whispered something to him; at which George, giving
a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass, clapped it on the
table, and walked away speedily on his friend's arm. "The enemy has
passed the Sambre," William said, "and our left is already engaged.
Come away. We are to march in three hours."
Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at the news so
long looked for, so sudden when it came. What were love and intrigue
now? He thought about a thousand things but these in his rapid walk to
his quarters: his past life and future chances--the fate which might
be before him--the wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might
be about to part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone! and that
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the tender
and guileless being by whose love he had set such little store.
He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks he had
frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and reckless he
had been! Should any mischance befall him, what was then left for her?
How unworthy he was of her! Why had he married her? He was not fit for
marriage! Why had he disobeyed his father, who had been always so
generous to him? Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish
regret filled his heart. He sate down and wrote to his father,
remembering what he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight
a duel. Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell
letter. He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how he
had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kindnesses
which the stern old man had done him.
He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she lay quiet,
and her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that she was asleep. On
arriving at his quarters from the ball, he had found his regimental
servant already making preparations for his departure: the man had
understood his signal to be still, and these arrangements were very
quickly and silently made. Should he go in and wake Amelia, he
thought, or leave a note for her brother to break the news of
departure to her? He went in to look at her once again.
She had been awake when he first entered her room, but had kept her
eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should not seem to reproach
him. But when he had returned,--so soon after herself, too,--this
timid little heart had felt more at ease; and turning towards him as
he stept softly out of the room, she had fallen into a light sleep.
George came in and looked at her again, entering still more softly. By
the pale night-lamp he could see her sweet, pale face: the purple
eyelids were fringed and closed, and one round arm, smooth and white,
lay outside the coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how
tender, and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black
with crime! Heart-stained and shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's
foot and looked at the sleeping girl. How dared he--who was he, to
pray for one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her! He came to the
bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft hand, lying asleep;
and he bent over the pillow noiselessly toward the gentle pale face.
Two fair arms closed tenderly around his neck as he stooped down. "I
am awake, George," the poor child said, with a sob fit to break the
little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She was awake, poor
soul--and to what? At that moment a bugle from the Place of Arms began
sounding clearly, and was taken up through the town; and 'midst the
drums of the infantry, and the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole
city awoke....
All our friends took their share and fought like men in the great
field. All day long, whilst the women were praying ten miles away, the
lines of the dauntless English infantry were receiving and repelling
the furious charges of the French horsemen. Guns which were heard at
Brussels were plowing up their ranks, and comrades falling, and the
resolute survivors closing in. Toward evening the attack of the
French, repeated and resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury. They
had other foes besides the British to engage, or were preparing for a
final onset. It came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard
marched up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the
English from the height which they had maintained all day; and spite
of all, unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which hurled death
from the English line, the dark column prest on and up the hill. It
seemed almost to crest the eminence, when it began to waver and
falter. Then it stopt, still facing the shot. Then at last the English
troops rushed from the post from which no enemy had been able to
dislodge them, and the Guard turned and fled.
No more firing was heard at Brussels--the pursuit rolled miles away.
Darkness came down on the field and city: and Amelia was praying for
George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his
heart.