CHAPTER LXVII

Which Contains Births, Marriages, and Deaths

Whatever Becky's private plan might be by which Dobbin's true love was

to be crowned with success, the little woman thought that the secret

might keep, and indeed, being by no means so much interested about

anybody's welfare as about her own, she had a great number of things

pertaining to herself to consider, and which concerned her a great deal

more than Major Dobbin's happiness in this life.

She found herself suddenly and unexpectedly in snug comfortable

quarters, surrounded by friends, kindness, and good-natured simple

people such as she had not met with for many a long day; and, wanderer

as she was by force and inclination, there were moments when rest was

pleasant to her. As the most hardened Arab that ever careered across

the desert over the hump of a dromedary likes to repose sometimes under

the date-trees by the water, or to come into the cities, walk into the

bazaars, refresh himself in the baths, and say his prayers in the

mosques, before he goes out again marauding, so Jos's tents and pilau

were pleasant to this little Ishmaelite. She picketed her steed, hung

up her weapons, and warmed herself comfortably by his fire. The halt

in that roving, restless life was inexpressibly soothing and pleasant

to her.

So, pleased herself, she tried with all her might to please everybody;

and we know that she was eminent and successful as a practitioner in

the art of giving pleasure. As for Jos, even in that little interview

in the garret at the Elephant Inn, she had found means to win back a

great deal of his good-will. In the course of a week, the civilian was

her sworn slave and frantic admirer. He didn't go to sleep after

dinner, as his custom was in the much less lively society of Amelia.

He drove out with Becky in his open carriage. He asked little parties

and invented festivities to do her honour.

Tapeworm, the Charge d'Affaires, who had abused her so cruelly, came to

dine with Jos, and then came every day to pay his respects to Becky.

Poor Emmy, who was never very talkative, and more glum and silent than

ever after Dobbin's departure, was quite forgotten when this superior

genius made her appearance. The French Minister was as much charmed

with her as his English rival. The German ladies, never particularly

squeamish as regards morals, especially in English people, were

delighted with the cleverness and wit of Mrs. Osborne's charming

friend, and though she did not ask to go to Court, yet the most august

and Transparent Personages there heard of her fascinations and were

quite curious to know her. When it became known that she was noble, of

an ancient English family, that her husband was a Colonel of the Guard,

Excellenz and Governor of an island, only separated from his lady by

one of those trifling differences which are of little account in a

country where Werther is still read and the Wahlverwandtschaften of

Goethe is considered an edifying moral book, nobody thought of refusing

to receive her in the very highest society of the little Duchy; and the

ladies were even more ready to call her du and to swear eternal

friendship for her than they had been to bestow the same inestimable

benefits upon Amelia. Love and Liberty are interpreted by those simple

Germans in a way which honest folks in Yorkshire and Somersetshire

little understand, and a lady might, in some philosophic and civilized

towns, be divorced ever so many times from her respective husbands and

keep her character in society. Jos's house never was so pleasant since

he had a house of his own as Rebecca caused it to be. She sang, she

played, she laughed, she talked in two or three languages, she brought

everybody to the house, and she made Jos believe that it was his own

great social talents and wit which gathered the society of the place

round about him.

As for Emmy, who found herself not in the least mistress of her own

house, except when the bills were to be paid, Becky soon discovered the

way to soothe and please her. She talked to her perpetually about

Major Dobbin sent about his business, and made no scruple of declaring

her admiration for that excellent, high-minded gentleman, and of

telling Emmy that she had behaved most cruelly regarding him. Emmy

defended her conduct and showed that it was dictated only by the purest

religious principles; that a woman once, &c., and to such an angel as

him whom she had had the good fortune to marry, was married forever;

but she had no objection to hear the Major praised as much as ever

Becky chose to praise him, and indeed, brought the conversation round

to the Dobbin subject a score of times every day.

Means were easily found to win the favour of Georgy and the servants.

Amelia's maid, it has been said, was heart and soul in favour of the

generous Major. Having at first disliked Becky for being the means of

dismissing him from the presence of her mistress, she was reconciled to

Mrs. Crawley subsequently, because the latter became William's most

ardent admirer and champion. And in those nightly conclaves in which

the two ladies indulged after their parties, and while Miss Payne was

"brushing their 'airs," as she called the yellow locks of the one and

the soft brown tresses of the other, this girl always put in her word

for that dear good gentleman Major Dobbin. Her advocacy did not make

Amelia angry any more than Rebecca's admiration of him. She made

George write to him constantly and persisted in sending Mamma's kind

love in a postscript. And as she looked at her husband's portrait of

nights, it no longer reproached her--perhaps she reproached it, now

William was gone.

Emmy was not very happy after her heroic sacrifice. She was very

distraite, nervous, silent, and ill to please. The family had never

known her so peevish. She grew pale and ill. She used to try to sing

certain songs ("Einsam bin ich nicht alleine," was one of them, that

tender love-song of Weber's which in old-fashioned days, young ladies,

and when you were scarcely born, showed that those who lived before you

knew too how to love and to sing) certain songs, I say, to which the

Major was partial; and as she warbled them in the twilight in the

drawing-room, she would break off in the midst of the song, and walk

into her neighbouring apartment, and there, no doubt, take refuge in

the miniature of her husband.

Some books still subsisted, after Dobbin's departure, with his name

written in them; a German dictionary, for instance, with "William

Dobbin, --th Reg.," in the fly-leaf; a guide-book with his initials;

and one or two other volumes which belonged to the Major. Emmy cleared

these away and put them on the drawers, where she placed her work-box,

her desk, her Bible, and prayer-book, under the pictures of the two

Georges. And the Major, on going away, having left his gloves behind

him, it is a fact that Georgy, rummaging his mother's desk some time

afterwards, found the gloves neatly folded up and put away in what they

call the secret-drawers of the desk.

Not caring for society, and moping there a great deal, Emmy's chief

pleasure in the summer evenings was to take long walks with Georgy

(during which Rebecca was left to the society of Mr. Joseph), and then

the mother and son used to talk about the Major in a way which even

made the boy smile. She told him that she thought Major William was

the best man in all the world--the gentlest and the kindest, the

bravest and the humblest. Over and over again she told him how they

owed everything which they possessed in the world to that kind friend's

benevolent care of them; how he had befriended them all through their

poverty and misfortunes; watched over them when nobody cared for them;

how all his comrades admired him though he never spoke of his own

gallant actions; how Georgy's father trusted him beyond all other men,

and had been constantly befriended by the good William. "Why, when

your papa was a little boy," she said, "he often told me that it was

William who defended him against a tyrant at the school where they

were; and their friendship never ceased from that day until the last,

when your dear father fell."

"Did Dobbin kill the man who killed Papa?" Georgy said. "I'm sure he

did, or he would if he could have caught him, wouldn't he, Mother? When

I'm in the Army, won't I hate the French?--that's all."

In such colloquies the mother and the child passed a great deal of

their time together. The artless woman had made a confidant of the

boy. He was as much William's friend as everybody else who knew him

well.

By the way, Mrs. Becky, not to be behind hand in sentiment, had got a

miniature too hanging up in her room, to the surprise and amusement of

most people, and the delight of the original, who was no other than our

friend Jos. On her first coming to favour the Sedleys with a visit,

the little woman, who had arrived with a remarkably small shabby kit,

was perhaps ashamed of the meanness of her trunks and bandboxes, and

often spoke with great respect about her baggage left behind at

Leipzig, which she must have from that city. When a traveller talks to

you perpetually about the splendour of his luggage, which he does not

happen to have with him, my son, beware of that traveller! He is, ten

to one, an impostor.

Neither Jos nor Emmy knew this important maxim. It seemed to them of

no consequence whether Becky had a quantity of very fine clothes in

invisible trunks; but as her present supply was exceedingly shabby,

Emmy supplied her out of her own stores, or took her to the best

milliner in the town and there fitted her out. It was no more torn

collars now, I promise you, and faded silks trailing off at the

shoulder. Becky changed her habits with her situation in life--the

rouge-pot was suspended--another excitement to which she had accustomed

herself was also put aside, or at least only indulged in in privacy, as

when she was prevailed on by Jos of a summer evening, Emmy and the boy

being absent on their walks, to take a little spirit-and-water. But if

she did not indulge--the courier did: that rascal Kirsch could not be

kept from the bottle, nor could he tell how much he took when he

applied to it. He was sometimes surprised himself at the way in which

Mr. Sedley's Cognac diminished. Well, well, this is a painful subject.

Becky did not very likely indulge so much as she used before she

entered a decorous family.

At last the much-bragged-about boxes arrived from Leipzig; three of

them not by any means large or splendid; nor did Becky appear to take

out any sort of dresses or ornaments from the boxes when they did

arrive. But out of one, which contained a mass of her papers (it was

that very box which Rawdon Crawley had ransacked in his furious hunt

for Becky's concealed money), she took a picture with great glee, which

she pinned up in her room, and to which she introduced Jos. It was the

portrait of a gentleman in pencil, his face having the advantage of

being painted up in pink. He was riding on an elephant away from some

cocoa-nut trees and a pagoda: it was an Eastern scene.

"God bless my soul, it is my portrait," Jos cried out. It was he

indeed, blooming in youth and beauty, in a nankeen jacket of the cut of

1804. It was the old picture that used to hang up in Russell Square.

"I bought it," said Becky in a voice trembling with emotion; "I went to

see if I could be of any use to my kind friends. I have never parted

with that picture--I never will."

"Won't you?" Jos cried with a look of unutterable rapture and

satisfaction. "Did you really now value it for my sake?"

"You know I did, well enough," said Becky; "but why speak--why

think--why look back! It is too late now!"

That evening's conversation was delicious for Jos. Emmy only came in to

go to bed very tired and unwell. Jos and his fair guest had a charming

tete-a-tete, and his sister could hear, as she lay awake in her

adjoining chamber, Rebecca singing over to Jos the old songs of 1815.

He did not sleep, for a wonder, that night, any more than Amelia.

It was June, and, by consequence, high season in London; Jos, who read

the incomparable Galignani (the exile's best friend) through every day,

used to favour the ladies with extracts from his paper during their

breakfast. Every week in this paper there is a full account of

military movements, in which Jos, as a man who had seen service, was

especially interested. On one occasion he read out--"Arrival of the

--th regiment. Gravesend, June 20.--The Ramchunder, East Indiaman,

came into the river this morning, having on board 14 officers, and 132

rank and file of this gallant corps. They have been absent from

England fourteen years, having been embarked the year after Waterloo,

in which glorious conflict they took an active part, and having

subsequently distinguished themselves in the Burmese war. The veteran

colonel, Sir Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B., with his lady and sister, landed

here yesterday, with Captains Posky, Stubble, Macraw, Malony;

Lieutenants Smith, Jones, Thompson, F. Thomson; Ensigns Hicks and

Grady; the band on the pier playing the national anthem, and the crowd

loudly cheering the gallant veterans as they went into Wayte's hotel,

where a sumptuous banquet was provided for the defenders of Old

England. During the repast, which we need not say was served up in

Wayte's best style, the cheering continued so enthusiastically that

Lady O'Dowd and the Colonel came forward to the balcony and drank the

healths of their fellow-countrymen in a bumper of Wayte's best claret."

On a second occasion Jos read a brief announcement--Major Dobbin had

joined the --th regiment at Chatham; and subsequently he promulgated

accounts of the presentations at the Drawing-room of Colonel Sir

Michael O'Dowd, K.C.B., Lady O'Dowd (by Mrs. Malloy Malony of

Ballymalony), and Miss Glorvina O'Dowd (by Lady O'Dowd). Almost

directly after this, Dobbin's name appeared among the Lieutenant-Colonels:

for old Marshal Tiptoff had died during the passage of the

--th from Madras, and the Sovereign was pleased to advance Colonel Sir

Michael O'Dowd to the rank of Major-General on his return to England,

with an intimation that he should be Colonel of the distinguished

regiment which he had so long commanded.

Amelia had been made aware of some of these movements. The

correspondence between George and his guardian had not ceased by any

means: William had even written once or twice to her since his

departure, but in a manner so unconstrainedly cold that the poor woman

felt now in her turn that she had lost her power over him and that, as

he had said, he was free. He had left her, and she was wretched. The

memory of his almost countless services, and lofty and affectionate

regard, now presented itself to her and rebuked her day and night. She

brooded over those recollections according to her wont, saw the purity

and beauty of the affection with which she had trifled, and reproached

herself for having flung away such a treasure.

It was gone indeed. William had spent it all out. He loved her no

more, he thought, as he had loved her. He never could again. That sort

of regard, which he had proffered to her for so many faithful years,

can't be flung down and shattered and mended so as to show no scars.

The little heedless tyrant had so destroyed it. No, William thought

again and again, "It was myself I deluded and persisted in cajoling;

had she been worthy of the love I gave her, she would have returned it

long ago. It was a fond mistake. Isn't the whole course of life made

up of such? And suppose I had won her, should I not have been

disenchanted the day after my victory? Why pine, or be ashamed of my

defeat?" The more he thought of this long passage of his life, the more

clearly he saw his deception. "I'll go into harness again," he said,

"and do my duty in that state of life in which it has pleased Heaven to

place me. I will see that the buttons of the recruits are properly

bright and that the sergeants make no mistakes in their accounts. I

will dine at mess and listen to the Scotch surgeon telling his stories.

When I am old and broken, I will go on half-pay, and my old sisters

shall scold me. I have geliebt und gelebet, as the girl in

'Wallenstein' says. I am done. Pay the bills and get me a cigar:

find out what there is at the play to-night, Francis; to-morrow we

cross by the Batavier." He made the above speech, whereof Francis only

heard the last two lines, pacing up and down the Boompjes at Rotterdam.

The Batavier was lying in the basin. He could see the place on the

quarter-deck where he and Emmy had sat on the happy voyage out. What

had that little Mrs. Crawley to say to him? Psha; to-morrow we will put

to sea, and return to England, home, and duty!

After June all the little Court Society of Pumpernickel used to

separate, according to the German plan, and make for a hundred

watering-places, where they drank at the wells, rode upon donkeys,

gambled at the redoutes if they had money and a mind, rushed with

hundreds of their kind to gourmandise at the tables d'hote, and idled

away the summer. The English diplomatists went off to Teoplitz and

Kissingen, their French rivals shut up their chancellerie and whisked

away to their darling Boulevard de Gand. The Transparent reigning

family took too to the waters, or retired to their hunting lodges.

Everybody went away having any pretensions to politeness, and of

course, with them, Doctor von Glauber, the Court Doctor, and his

Baroness. The seasons for the baths were the most productive periods

of the Doctor's practice--he united business with pleasure, and his

chief place of resort was Ostend, which is much frequented by Germans,

and where the Doctor treated himself and his spouse to what he called a

"dib" in the sea.

His interesting patient, Jos, was a regular milch-cow to the Doctor,

and he easily persuaded the civilian, both for his own health's sake

and that of his charming sister, which was really very much shattered,

to pass the summer at that hideous seaport town. Emmy did not care

where she went much. Georgy jumped at the idea of a move. As for

Becky, she came as a matter of course in the fourth place inside of the

fine barouche Mr. Jos had bought, the two domestics being on the box in

front. She might have some misgivings about the friends whom she should

meet at Ostend, and who might be likely to tell ugly stories--but bah!

she was strong enough to hold her own. She had cast such an anchor in

Jos now as would require a strong storm to shake. That incident of the

picture had finished him. Becky took down her elephant and put it into

the little box which she had had from Amelia ever so many years ago.

Emmy also came off with her Lares--her two pictures--and the party,

finally, were, lodged in an exceedingly dear and uncomfortable house at

Ostend.

There Amelia began to take baths and get what good she could from them,

and though scores of people of Becky's acquaintance passed her and cut

her, yet Mrs. Osborne, who walked about with her, and who knew nobody,

was not aware of the treatment experienced by the friend whom she had

chosen so judiciously as a companion; indeed, Becky never thought fit

to tell her what was passing under her innocent eyes.

Some of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's acquaintances, however, acknowledged her

readily enough,--perhaps more readily than she would have desired.

Among those were Major Loder (unattached), and Captain Rook (late of

the Rifles), who might be seen any day on the Dike, smoking and staring

at the women, and who speedily got an introduction to the hospitable

board and select circle of Mr. Joseph Sedley. In fact they would take

no denial; they burst into the house whether Becky was at home or not,

walked into Mrs. Osborne's drawing-room, which they perfumed with their

coats and mustachios, called Jos "Old buck," and invaded his

dinner-table, and laughed and drank for long hours there.

"What can they mean?" asked Georgy, who did not like these gentlemen.

"I heard the Major say to Mrs. Crawley yesterday, 'No, no, Becky, you

shan't keep the old buck to yourself. We must have the bones in, or,

dammy, I'll split.' What could the Major mean, Mamma?"

"Major! don't call him Major!" Emmy said. "I'm sure I can't tell what

he meant." His presence and that of his friend inspired the little lady

with intolerable terror and aversion. They paid her tipsy compliments;

they leered at her over the dinner-table. And the Captain made her

advances that filled her with sickening dismay, nor would she ever see

him unless she had George by her side.

Rebecca, to do her justice, never would let either of these men remain

alone with Amelia; the Major was disengaged too, and swore he would be

the winner of her. A couple of ruffians were fighting for this innocent

creature, gambling for her at her own table, and though she was not

aware of the rascals' designs upon her, yet she felt a horror and

uneasiness in their presence and longed to fly.

She besought, she entreated Jos to go. Not he. He was slow of

movement, tied to his Doctor, and perhaps to some other leading-strings.

At least Becky was not anxious to go to England.

At last she took a great resolution--made the great plunge. She wrote

off a letter to a friend whom she had on the other side of the water, a

letter about which she did not speak a word to anybody, which she

carried herself to the post under her shawl; nor was any remark made

about it, only that she looked very much flushed and agitated when

Georgy met her, and she kissed him, and hung over him a great deal that

night. She did not come out of her room after her return from her

walk. Becky thought it was Major Loder and the Captain who frightened

her.

"She mustn't stop here," Becky reasoned with herself. "She must go

away, the silly little fool. She is still whimpering after that gaby

of a husband--dead (and served right!) these fifteen years. She shan't

marry either of these men. It's too bad of Loder. No; she shall marry

the bamboo cane, I'll settle it this very night."

So Becky took a cup of tea to Amelia in her private apartment and found

that lady in the company of her miniatures, and in a most melancholy

and nervous condition. She laid down the cup of tea.

"Thank you," said Amelia.

"Listen to me, Amelia," said Becky, marching up and down the room

before the other and surveying her with a sort of contemptuous

kindness. "I want to talk to you. You must go away from here and from

the impertinences of these men. I won't have you harassed by them:

and they will insult you if you stay. I tell you they are rascals: men

fit to send to the hulks. Never mind how I know them. I know

everybody. Jos can't protect you; he is too weak and wants a protector

himself. You are no more fit to live in the world than a baby in arms.

You must marry, or you and your precious boy will go to ruin. You must

have a husband, you fool; and one of the best gentlemen I ever saw has

offered you a hundred times, and you have rejected him, you silly,

heartless, ungrateful little creature!"

"I tried--I tried my best, indeed I did, Rebecca," said Amelia

deprecatingly, "but I couldn't forget--"; and she finished the sentence

by looking up at the portrait.

"Couldn't forget HIM!" cried out Becky, "that selfish humbug, that

low-bred cockney dandy, that padded booby, who had neither wit, nor

manners, nor heart, and was no more to be compared to your friend with

the bamboo cane than you are to Queen Elizabeth. Why, the man was

weary of you, and would have jilted you, but that Dobbin forced him to

keep his word. He owned it to me. He never cared for you. He used to

sneer about you to me, time after time, and made love to me the week

after he married you."

"It's false! It's false! Rebecca," cried out Amelia, starting up.

"Look there, you fool," Becky said, still with provoking good humour,

and taking a little paper out of her belt, she opened it and flung it

into Emmy's lap. "You know his handwriting. He wrote that to

me--wanted me to run away with him--gave it me under your nose, the day

before he was shot--and served him right!" Becky repeated.

Emmy did not hear her; she was looking at the letter. It was that which

George had put into the bouquet and given to Becky on the night of the

Duchess of Richmond's ball. It was as she said: the foolish young man

had asked her to fly.

Emmy's head sank down, and for almost the last time in which she shall

be called upon to weep in this history, she commenced that work. Her

head fell to her bosom, and her hands went up to her eyes; and there

for a while, she gave way to her emotions, as Becky stood on and

regarded her. Who shall analyse those tears and say whether they were

sweet or bitter? Was she most grieved because the idol of her life was

tumbled down and shivered at her feet, or indignant that her love had

been so despised, or glad because the barrier was removed which modesty

had placed between her and a new, a real affection? "There is nothing

to forbid me now," she thought. "I may love him with all my heart now.

Oh, I will, I will, if he will but let me and forgive me." I believe it

was this feeling rushed over all the others which agitated that gentle

little bosom.

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 christened 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, &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.

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.