part in the household, and Osborne did not scruple to show his contempt

for the stout civilian. But Emmy had always been good and attentive to

him. It was she who ministered to his comforts, who superintended the

dishes that he liked, who walked or rode with him (as she had many, too

many, opportunities of doing, for where was George?) and who interposed

her sweet face between his anger and her husband's scorn. Many timid

remonstrances had she uttered to George in behalf of her brother, but

the former in his trenchant way cut these entreaties short. "I'm an

honest man," he said, "and if I have a feeling I show it, as an honest

man will. How the deuce, my dear, would you have me behave

respectfully to such a fool as your brother?" So Jos was pleased with

George's absence. His plain hat, and gloves on a sideboard, and the

idea that the owner was away, caused Jos I don't know what secret

thrill of pleasure. "HE won't be troubling me this morning," Jos

thought, "with his dandified airs and his impudence."

"Put the Captain's hat into the ante-room," he said to Isidor, the

servant.

"Perhaps he won't want it again," replied the lackey, looking knowingly

at his master. He hated George too, whose insolence towards him was

quite of the English sort.

"And ask if Madame is coming to breakfast," Mr. Sedley said with great

majesty, ashamed to enter with a servant upon the subject of his

dislike for George. The truth is, he had abused his brother to the

valet a score of times before.

Alas! Madame could not come to breakfast, and cut the tartines that

Mr. Jos liked. Madame was a great deal too ill, and had been in a

frightful state ever since her husband's departure, so her bonne said.

Jos showed his sympathy by pouring her out a large cup of tea It was

his way of exhibiting kindness: and he improved on this; he not only

sent her breakfast, but he bethought him what delicacies she would most

like for dinner.

Isidor, the valet, had looked on very sulkily, while Osborne's servant

was disposing of his master's baggage previous to the Captain's

departure: for in the first place he hated Mr. Osborne, whose conduct

to him, and to all inferiors, was generally overbearing (nor does the

continental domestic like to be treated with insolence as our own

better-tempered servants do), and secondly, he was angry that so many

valuables should be removed from under his hands, to fall into other

people's possession when the English discomfiture should arrive. Of

this defeat he and a vast number of other persons in Brussels and

Belgium did not make the slightest doubt. The almost universal belief

was, that the Emperor would divide the Prussian and English armies,

annihilate one after the other, and march into Brussels before three

days were over: when all the movables of his present masters, who would

be killed, or fugitives, or prisoners, would lawfully become the

property of Monsieur Isidor.

As he helped Jos through his toilsome and complicated daily toilette,

this faithful servant would calculate what he should do with the very

articles with which he was decorating his master's person. He would

make a present of the silver essence-bottles and toilet knicknacks to a

young lady of whom he was fond; and keep the English cutlery and the

large ruby pin for himself. It would look very smart upon one of the

fine frilled shirts, which, with the gold-laced cap and the frogged

frock coat, that might easily be cut down to suit his shape, and the

Captain's gold-headed cane, and the great double ring with the rubies,

which he would have made into a pair of beautiful earrings, he

calculated would make a perfect Adonis of himself, and render

Mademoiselle Reine an easy prey. "How those sleeve-buttons will suit

me!" thought he, as he fixed a pair on the fat pudgy wrists of Mr.

Sedley. "I long for sleeve-buttons; and the Captain's boots with brass

spurs, in the next room, corbleu! what an effect they will make in the

Allee Verte!" So while Monsieur Isidor with bodily fingers was holding

on to his master's nose, and shaving the lower part of Jos's face, his

imagination was rambling along the Green Avenue, dressed out in a

frogged coat and lace, and in company with Mademoiselle Reine; he was

loitering in spirit on the banks, and examining the barges sailing

slowly under the cool shadows of the trees by the canal, or refreshing

himself with a mug of Faro at the bench of a beer-house on the road to

Laeken.

But Mr. Joseph Sedley, luckily for his own peace, no more knew what was

passing in his domestic's mind than the respected reader, and I suspect

what John or Mary, whose wages we pay, think of ourselves. What our

servants think of us!--Did we know what our intimates and dear

relations thought of us, we should live in a world that we should be

glad to quit, and in a frame of mind and a constant terror, that would

be perfectly unbearable. So Jos's man was marking his victim down, as

you see one of Mr. Paynter's assistants in Leadenhall Street ornament

an unconscious turtle with a placard on which is written, "Soup

to-morrow."

Amelia's attendant was much less selfishly disposed. Few dependents

could come near that kind and gentle creature without paying their

usual tribute of loyalty and affection to her sweet and affectionate

nature. And it is a fact that Pauline, the cook, consoled her mistress

more than anybody whom she saw on this wretched morning; for when she

found how Amelia remained for hours, silent, motionless, and haggard,

by the windows in which she had placed herself to watch the last

bayonets of the column as it marched away, the honest girl took the

lady's hand, and said, Tenez, Madame, est-ce qu'il n'est pas aussi a

l'armee, mon homme a moi? with which she burst into tears, and Amelia

falling into her arms, did likewise, and so each pitied and soothed the

other.

Several times during the forenoon Mr. Jos's Isidor went from his

lodgings into the town, and to the gates of the hotels and lodging-houses

round about the Parc, where the English were congregated, and

there mingled with other valets, couriers, and lackeys, gathered such

news as was abroad, and brought back bulletins for his master's

information. Almost all these gentlemen were in heart partisans of the

Emperor, and had their opinions about the speedy end of the campaign.

The Emperor's proclamation from Avesnes had been distributed everywhere

plentifully in Brussels. "Soldiers!" it said, "this is the

anniversary of Marengo and Friedland, by which the destinies of Europe

were twice decided. Then, as after Austerlitz, as after Wagram, we

were too generous. We believed in the oaths and promises of princes

whom we suffered to remain upon their thrones. Let us march once more

to meet them. We and they, are we not still the same men? Soldiers!

these same Prussians who are so arrogant to-day, were three to one

against you at Jena, and six to one at Montmirail. Those among you who

were prisoners in England can tell their comrades what frightful

torments they suffered on board the English hulks. Madmen! a moment

of prosperity has blinded them, and if they enter into France it will

be to find a grave there!" But the partisans of the French prophesied

a more speedy extermination of the Emperor's enemies than this; and it

was agreed on all hands that Prussians and British would never return

except as prisoners in the rear of the conquering army.

These opinions in the course of the day were brought to operate upon

Mr. Sedley. He was told that the Duke of Wellington had gone to try

and rally his army, the advance of which had been utterly crushed the

night before.

"Crushed, psha!" said Jos, whose heart was pretty stout at

breakfast-time. "The Duke has gone to beat the Emperor as he has

beaten all his generals before."

"His papers are burned, his effects are removed, and his quarters are

being got ready for the Duke of Dalmatia," Jos's informant replied. "I

had it from his own maitre d'hotel. Milor Duc de Richemont's people

are packing up everything. His Grace has fled already, and the Duchess

is only waiting to see the plate packed to join the King of France at

Ostend."

"The King of France is at Ghent, fellow," replied Jos, affecting

incredulity.

"He fled last night to Bruges, and embarks today from Ostend. The Duc

de Berri is taken prisoner. Those who wish to be safe had better go

soon, for the dykes will be opened to-morrow, and who can fly when the

whole country is under water?"

"Nonsense, sir, we are three to one, sir, against any force Boney can

bring into the field," Mr. Sedley objected; "the Austrians and the

Russians are on their march. He must, he shall be crushed," Jos said,

slapping his hand on the table.

"The Prussians were three to one at Jena, and he took their army and

kingdom in a week. They were six to one at Montmirail, and he

scattered them like sheep. The Austrian army is coming, but with the

Empress and the King of Rome at its head; and the Russians, bah! the

Russians will withdraw. No quarter is to be given to the English, on

account of their cruelty to our braves on board the infamous pontoons.

Look here, here it is in black and white. Here's the proclamation of

his Majesty the Emperor and King," said the now declared partisan of

Napoleon, and taking the document from his pocket, Isidor sternly

thrust it into his master's face, and already looked upon the frogged

coat and valuables as his own spoil.

Jos was, if not seriously alarmed as yet, at least considerably

disturbed in mind. "Give me my coat and cap, sir," said he, "and follow

me. I will go myself and learn the truth of these reports." Isidor was

furious as Jos put on the braided frock. "Milor had better not wear

that military coat," said he; "the Frenchmen have sworn not to give

quarter to a single British soldier."

"Silence, sirrah!" said Jos, with a resolute countenance still, and

thrust his arm into the sleeve with indomitable resolution, in the

performance of which heroic act he was found by Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,

who at this juncture came up to visit Amelia, and entered without

ringing at the antechamber door.

Rebecca was dressed very neatly and smartly, as usual: her quiet sleep

after Rawdon's departure had refreshed her, and her pink smiling cheeks

were quite pleasant to look at, in a town and on a day when everybody

else's countenance wore the appearance of the deepest anxiety and

gloom. She laughed at the attitude in which Jos was discovered, and

the struggles and convulsions with which the stout gentleman thrust

himself into the braided coat.

"Are you preparing to join the army, Mr. Joseph?" she said. "Is there

to be nobody left in Brussels to protect us poor women?" Jos succeeded

in plunging into the coat, and came forward blushing and stuttering out

excuses to his fair visitor. "How was she after the events of the

morning--after the fatigues of the ball the night before?" Monsieur

Isidor disappeared into his master's adjacent bedroom, bearing off the

flowered dressing-gown.

"How good of you to ask," said she, pressing one of his hands in both

her own. "How cool and collected you look when everybody else is

frightened! How is our dear little Emmy? It must have been an awful,

awful parting."

"Tremendous," Jos said.

"You men can bear anything," replied the lady. "Parting or danger are

nothing to you. Own now that you were going to join the army and leave

us to our fate. I know you were--something tells me you were. I was so

frightened, when the thought came into my head (for I do sometimes

think of you when I am alone, Mr. Joseph), that I ran off immediately

to beg and entreat you not to fly from us."

This speech might be interpreted, "My dear sir, should an accident

befall the army, and a retreat be necessary, you have a very

comfortable carriage, in which I propose to take a seat." I don't know

whether Jos understood the words in this sense. But he was profoundly

mortified by the lady's inattention to him during their stay at

Brussels. He had never been presented to any of Rawdon Crawley's great

acquaintances: he had scarcely 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

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."

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.