Vanity Fair (53 page)

"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."

The savour of the soup, however, was agreeable to Mrs. O'Dowd's
nostrils: and she thought she would bear Mr. Jos company. So the
two sate down to their meal. "God bless the meat," said the Major's
wife, solemnly: she was thinking of her honest Mick, riding at the
head of his regiment: "'Tis but a bad dinner those poor boys will
get to-day," she said, with a sigh, and then, like a philosopher,
fell to.

Jos's spirits rose with his meal. He would drink the regiment's
health; or, indeed, take any other excuse to indulge in a glass of
champagne. "We'll drink to O'Dowd and the brave —th," said he,
bowing gallantly to his guest. "Hey, Mrs. O'Dowd? Fill Mrs.
O'Dowd's glass, Isidor."

But all of a sudden, Isidor started, and the Major's wife laid down
her knife and fork. The windows of the room were open, and looked
southward, and a dull distant sound came over the sun-lighted roofs
from that direction. "What is it?" said Jos. "Why don't you pour,
you rascal?"

"Cest le feu!" said Isidor, running to the balcony.

"God defend us; it's cannon!" Mrs. O'Dowd cried, starting up, and
followed too to the window. A thousand pale and anxious faces might
have been seen looking from other casements. And presently it
seemed as if the whole population of the city rushed into the
streets.

In Which Jos Takes Flight, and the War Is Brought to a Close

We of peaceful London City have never beheld—and please God never
shall witness—such a scene of hurry and alarm, as that which
Brussels presented. Crowds rushed to the Namur gate, from which
direction the noise proceeded, and many rode along the level
chaussee, to be in advance of any intelligence from the army. Each
man asked his neighbour for news; and even great English lords and
ladies condescended to speak to persons whom they did not know. The
friends of the French went abroad, wild with excitement, and
prophesying the triumph of their Emperor. The merchants closed
their shops, and came out to swell the general chorus of alarm and
clamour. Women rushed to the churches, and crowded the chapels, and
knelt and prayed on the flags and steps. The dull sound of the
cannon went on rolling, rolling. Presently carriages with
travellers began to leave the town, galloping away by the Ghent
barrier. The prophecies of the French partisans began to pass for
facts. "He has cut the armies in two," it was said. "He is
marching straight on Brussels. He will overpower the English, and
be here to-night." "He will overpower the English," shrieked Isidor
to his master, "and will be here to-night." The man bounded in and
out from the lodgings to the street, always returning with some
fresh particulars of disaster. Jos's face grew paler and paler.
Alarm began to take entire possession of the stout civilian. All
the champagne he drank brought no courage to him. Before sunset he
was worked up to such a pitch of nervousness as gratified his friend
Isidor to behold, who now counted surely upon the spoils of the
owner of the laced coat.

The women were away all this time. After hearing the firing for a
moment, the stout Major's wife bethought her of her friend in the
next chamber, and ran in to watch, and if possible to console,
Amelia. The idea that she had that helpless and gentle creature to
protect, gave additional strength to the natural courage of the
honest Irishwoman. She passed five hours by her friend's side,
sometimes in remonstrance, sometimes talking cheerfully, oftener in
silence and terrified mental supplication. "I never let go her hand
once," said the stout lady afterwards, "until after sunset, when the
firing was over." Pauline, the bonne, was on her knees at church
hard by, praying for son homme a elle.

When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs. O'Dowd issued out
of Amelia's room into the parlour adjoining, where Jos sate with two
emptied flasks, and courage entirely gone. Once or twice he had
ventured into his sister's bedroom, looking very much alarmed, and
as if he would say something. But the Major's wife kept her place,
and he went away without disburthening himself of his speech. He
was ashamed to tell her that he wanted to fly.

But when she made her appearance in the dining-room, where he sate
in the twilight in the cheerless company of his empty champagne
bottles, he began to open his mind to her.

"Mrs. O'Dowd," he said, "hadn't you better get Amelia ready?"

"Are you going to take her out for a walk?" said the Major's lady;
"sure she's too weak to stir."

"I—I've ordered the carriage," he said, "and—and post-horses;
Isidor is gone for them," Jos continued.

"What do you want with driving to-night?" answered the lady. "Isn't
she better on her bed? I've just got her to lie down."

"Get her up," said Jos; "she must get up, I say": and he stamped
his foot energetically. "I say the horses are ordered—yes, the
horses are ordered. It's all over, and—"

"And what?" asked Mrs. O'Dowd.

"I'm off for Ghent," Jos answered. "Everybody is going; there's a
place for you! We shall start in half-an-hour."

The Major's wife looked at him with infinite scorn. "I don't move
till O'Dowd gives me the route," said she. "You may go if you like,
Mr. Sedley; but, faith, Amelia and I stop here."

"She SHALL go," said Jos, with another stamp of his foot. Mrs.
O'Dowd put herself with arms akimbo before the bedroom door.

"Is it her mother you're going to take her to?" she said; "or do you
want to go to Mamma yourself, Mr. Sedley? Good marning—a pleasant
journey to ye, sir. Bon voyage, as they say, and take my counsel,
and shave off them mustachios, or they'll bring you into mischief."

"D—n!" yelled out Jos, wild with fear, rage, and mortification; and
Isidor came in at this juncture, swearing in his turn. "Pas de
chevaux, sacre bleu!" hissed out the furious domestic. All the
horses were gone. Jos was not the only man in Brussels seized with
panic that day.

But Jos's fears, great and cruel as they were already, were destined
to increase to an almost frantic pitch before the night was over.
It has been mentioned how Pauline, the bonne, had son homme a elle
also in the ranks of the army that had gone out to meet the Emperor
Napoleon. This lover was a native of Brussels, and a Belgian
hussar. The troops of his nation signalised themselves in this war
for anything but courage, and young Van Cutsum, Pauline's admirer,
was too good a soldier to disobey his Colonel's orders to run away.
Whilst in garrison at Brussels young Regulus (he had been born in
the revolutionary times) found his great comfort, and passed almost
all his leisure moments, in Pauline's kitchen; and it was with
pockets and holsters crammed full of good things from her larder,
that he had take leave of his weeping sweetheart, to proceed upon
the campaign a few days before.

As far as his regiment was concerned, this campaign was over now.
They had formed a part of the division under the command of his
Sovereign apparent, the Prince of Orange, and as respected length of
swords and mustachios, and the richness of uniform and equipments,
Regulus and his comrades looked to be as gallant a body of men as
ever trumpet sounded for.

When Ney dashed upon the advance of the allied troops, carrying one
position after the other, until the arrival of the great body of the
British army from Brussels changed the aspect of the combat of
Quatre Bras, the squadrons among which Regulus rode showed the
greatest activity in retreating before the French, and were
dislodged from one post and another which they occupied with perfect
alacrity on their part. Their movements were only checked by the
advance of the British in their rear. Thus forced to halt, the
enemy's cavalry (whose bloodthirsty obstinacy cannot be too severely
reprehended) had at length an opportunity of coming to close
quarters with the brave Belgians before them; who preferred to
encounter the British rather than the French, and at once turning
tail rode through the English regiments that were behind them, and
scattered in all directions. The regiment in fact did not exist any
more. It was nowhere. It had no head-quarters. Regulus found
himself galloping many miles from the field of action, entirely
alone; and whither should he fly for refuge so naturally as to that
kitchen and those faithful arms in which Pauline had so often
welcomed him?

At some ten o'clock the clinking of a sabre might have been heard up
the stair of the house where the Osbornes occupied a story in the
continental fashion. A knock might have been heard at the kitchen
door; and poor Pauline, come back from church, fainted almost with
terror as she opened it and saw before her her haggard hussar. He
looked as pale as the midnight dragoon who came to disturb Leonora.
Pauline would have screamed, but that her cry would have called her
masters, and discovered her friend. She stifled her scream, then,
and leading her hero into the kitchen, gave him beer, and the choice
bits from the dinner, which Jos had not had the heart to taste. The
hussar showed he was no ghost by the prodigious quantity of flesh
and beer which he devoured—and during the mouthfuls he told his
tale of disaster.

His regiment had performed prodigies of courage, and had withstood
for a while the onset of the whole French army. But they were
overwhelmed at last, as was the whole British army by this time.
Ney destroyed each regiment as it came up. The Belgians in vain
interposed to prevent the butchery of the English. The Brunswickers
were routed and had fled—their Duke was killed. It was a general
debacle. He sought to drown his sorrow for the defeat in floods of
beer.

Isidor, who had come into the kitchen, heard the conversation and
rushed out to inform his master. "It is all over," he shrieked to
Jos. "Milor Duke is a prisoner; the Duke of Brunswick is killed;
the British army is in full flight; there is only one man escaped,
and he is in the kitchen now—come and hear him." So Jos tottered
into that apartment where Regulus still sate on the kitchen table,
and clung fast to his flagon of beer. In the best French which he
could muster, and which was in sooth of a very ungrammatical sort,
Jos besought the hussar to tell his tale. The disasters deepened as
Regulus spoke. He was the only man of his regiment not slain on the
field. He had seen the Duke of Brunswick fall, the black hussars
fly, the Ecossais pounded down by the cannon. "And the —th?" gasped
Jos.