Chapter LXVI: Amantium Irae

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　Frankness and kindness like Amelia's were likely totouch even such a hardened little reprobate as Becky. Shereturned Emmy's caresses and kind speeches withsomething very like gratitude, and an emotion which, if it wasnot lasting, for a moment was almost genuine. That wasa lucky stroke of hers about the child "torn from herarms shrieking." It was by that harrowing misfortunethat Becky had won her friend back, and it was one of thevery first points, we may be certain, upon which our poorsimple little Emmy began to talk to her new-foundacquaintance.

　　"And so they took your darling child from you?" oursimpleton cried out. "Oh, Rebecca, my poor dear sufferingfriend, I know what it is to lose a boy, and to feelfor those who have lost one. But please Heaven yourswill be restored to you, as a merciful merciful Providencehas brought me back mine."

　　"The child, my child? Oh, yes, my agonies were frightful,"Becky owned, not perhaps without a twinge of conscience.It jarred upon her to be obliged to commenceinstantly to tell lies in reply to so much confidence andsimplicity. But that is the misfortune of beginning withthis kind of forgery. When one fib becomes due as itwere, you must forge another to take up the oldacceptance; and so the stock of your lies in circulationinevitably multiplies, and the danger of detection increasesevery day.

　　"My agonies," Becky continued, "were terrible (I hopeshe won't sit down on the bottle) when they took himaway from me; I thought I should die; but I fortunatelyhad a brain fever, during which my doctor gave me up,and--and I recovered, and--and here I am, poor andfriendless."

　　"How old is he?" Emmy asked.

　　"Eleven," said Becky.

　　"Eleven!" cried the other. "Why, he was born the sameyear with Georgy, who is--"

　　"I know, I know," Becky cried out, who had in factquite forgotten all about little Rawdon's age. "Grief hasmade me forget so many things, dearest Amelia. I amvery much changed: half-wild sometimes. He was elevenwhen they took him away from me. Bless his sweetface; I have never seen it again."

　　"Was he fair or dark?" went on that absurd littleEmmy. "Show me his hair."

　　Becky almost laughed at her simplicity. "Not to-day,love--some other time, when my trunks arrive fromLeipzig, whence I came to this place--and a little drawingof him, which I made in happy days."

　　"Poor Becky, poor Becky!" said Emmy. "How thankful,how thankful I ought to be"; (though I doubt whetherthat practice of piety inculcated upon us by ourwomankind in early youth, namely, to be thankful becausewe are better off than somebody else, be a very rationalreligious exercise) and then she began to think, as usual,how her son was the handsomest, the best, and thecleverest boy in the whole world.

　　"You will see my Georgy," was the best thing Emmycould think of to console Becky. If anything could makeher comfortable that would.

　　And so the two women continued talking for an houror more, during which Becky had the opportunity ofgiving her new friend a full and complete version of herprivate history. She showed how her marriage withRawdon Crawley had always been viewed by the family withfeelings of the utmost hostility; how her sister-in-law(an artful woman) had poisoned her husband's mindagainst her; how he had formed odious connections,which had estranged his affections from her: how she hadborne everything--poverty, neglect, coldness from thebeing whom she most loved--and all for the sake of herchild; how, finally, and by the most flagrant outrage, shehad been driven into demanding a separation from herhusband, when the wretch did not scruple to ask that sheshould sacrifice her own fair fame so that he mightprocure advancement through the means of a very great andpowerful but unprincipled man--the Marquis of Steyne,indeed. The atrocious monster!

　　This part of her eventful history Becky gave with theutmost feminine delicacy and the most indignant virtue.Forced to fly her husband's roof by this insult, the cowardhad pursued his revenge by taking her child from her.And thus Becky said she was a wanderer, poor,unprotected, friendless, and wretched.

　　Emmy received this story, which was told at somelength, as those persons who are acquainted with hercharacter may imagine that she would. She quiveredwith indignation at the account of the conduct of themiserable Rawdon and the unprincipled Steyne. Her eyesmade notes of admiration for every one of the sentencesin which Becky described the persecutions of heraristocratic relatives and the falling away of her husband.(Becky did not abuse him. She spoke rather in sorrowthan in anger. She had loved him only too fondly: andwas he not the father of her boy?) And as for the separationscene from the child, while Becky was reciting it,Emmy retired altogether behind her pocket-handkerchief,so that the consummate little tragedian must have beencharmed to see the effect which her performanceproduced on her audience.

　　Whilst the ladies were carrying on their conversation,Amelia's constant escort, the Major (who, of course,did not wish to interrupt their conference, and foundhimself rather tired of creaking about the narrow stairpassage of which the roof brushed the nap from his hat)descended to the ground-floor of the house and into thegreat room common to all the frequenters of the Elephant,out of which the stair led. This apartment is alwaysin a fume of smoke and liberally sprinkled with beer. Ona dirty table stand scores of corresponding brasscandlesticks with tallow candles for the lodgers, whose keyshang up in rows.over the candles. Emmy had passedblushing through the room anon, where all sorts ofpeople were collected; Tyrolese glove-sellers and Danubianlinen-merchants, with their packs; students recruitingthemselves with butterbrods and meat; idlers, playingcards or dominoes on the sloppy, beery tables; tumblersrefreshing during the cessation of their performances--in a word, all the fumum and strepitus of a German innin fair time. The waiter brought the Major a mug of beer,as a matter of course, and he took out a cigar andamused himself with that pernicious vegetable and anewspaper until his charge should come down to claim him.

　　Max and Fritz came presently downstairs, their caps onone side, their spurs jingling, their pipes splendid withcoats of arms and full-blown tassels, and they hung up thekey of No. 90 on the board and called for the ration ofbutterbrod and beer. The pair sat down by the Major andfell into a conversation of which he could not help hearingsomewhat. It was mainly about "Fuchs" and "Philister,"and duels and drinking-bouts at the neighbouringUniversity of Schoppenhausen, from which renownedseat of learning they had just come in the Eilwagen,with Becky, as it appeared, by their side, and in orderto be present at the bridal fetes at Pumpernickel.

　　"The title Englanderinn seems to be en bays degonnoisance," said Max, who knew the French language,to Fritz, his comrade. "After the fat grandfather wentaway, there came a pretty little compatriot. I heard themchattering and whimpering together in the little woman'schamber."

　　"We must take the tickets for her concert," Fritz said."Hast thou any money, Max?"

　　"Bah," said the other, "the concert is a concert innubibus. Hans said that she advertised one at Leipzig, andthe Burschen took many tickets. But she went off withoutsinging. She said in the coach yesterday that her pianisthad fallen ill at Dresden. She cannot sing, it is my belief:her voice is as cracked as thine, O thou beer-soakingRenowner!"

　　"It is cracked; I hear her trying out of her window aschrecklich. English ballad, called 'De Rose upon deBalgony.' "

　　"Saufen and singen go not together," observed Fritzwith the red nose, who evidently preferred the formeramusement. "No, thou shalt take none of her tickets.She won money at the trente and quarante last night. Isaw her: she made a little English boy play for her. Wewill spend thy money there or at the theatre, or we willtreat her to French wine or Cognac in the AureliusGarden, but the tickets we will not buy. What sayestthou? Yet, another mug of beer?" and one and anothersuccessively having buried their blond whiskers in themawkish draught, curled them and swaggered off intothe fair.

　　The Major, who had seen the key of No. 90 put upon its hook and had heard the conversation of the twoyoung University bloods, was not at a loss tounderstand that their talk related to Becky. "The little devilis at her old tricks," he thought, and he smiled as herecalled old days, when he had witnessed the desperateflirtation with Jos and the ludicrous end of that adventure.He and George had often laughed over it subsequently,and until a few weeks after George's marriage,when he also was caught in the little Circe's toils, andhad an understanding with her which his comradecertainly suspected, but preferred to ignore. William wastoo much hurt or ashamed to ask to fathom thatdisgraceful mystery, although once, and evidently withremorse on his mind, George had alluded to it. It was onthe morning of Waterloo, as the young men stoodtogether in front of their line, surveying the black masses ofFrenchmen who crowned the opposite heights, and as therain was coming down, "I have been mixing in a foolishintrigue with a woman," George said. "I am glad we weremarched away. If I drop, I hope Emmy will never knowof that business. I wish to God it had never beenbegun!" And William was pleased to think, and had morethan once soothed poor George's widow with thenarrative, that Osborne, after quitting his wife, and afterthe action of Quatre Bras, on the first day, spoke gravelyand affectionately to his comrade of his father and hiswife. On these facts, too, William had insisted verystrongly in his conversations with the elder Osborne,and had thus been the means of reconciling the oldgentleman to his son's memory, just at the close of theelder man's life.

　　"And so this devil is still going on with her intrigues,"thought William. "I wish she were a hundred miles fromhere. She brings mischief wherever she goes." And hewas pursuing these forebodings and this uncomfortabletrain of thought, with his head between his hands, andthe Pumpernickel Gazette of last week unread under hisnose, when somebody tapped his shoulder with a parasol,and he looked up and saw Mrs. Amelia.

　　This woman had a way of tyrannizing over MajorDobbin (for the weakest of all people will domineerover somebody), and she ordered him about, and pattedhim, and made him fetch and carry just as if he was agreat Newfoundland dog. He liked, so to speak, to jumpinto the water if she said "High, Dobbin!" and to trotbehind her with her reticule in his mouth. This historyhas been written to very little purpose if the reader hasnot perceived that the Major was a spooney.

　　"Why did you not wait for me, sir, to escort medownstairs?" she said, giving a little toss of her headand a most sarcastic curtsey.

　　"I couldn't stand up in the passage," he answered witha comical deprecatory look; and, delighted to give her hisarm and to take her out of the horrid smoky place, hewould have walked off without even so much asremembering the waiter, had not the young fellow run afterhim and stopped him on the threshold of the Elephantto make him pay for the beer which he had notconsumed. Emmy laughed: she called him a naughty man,who wanted to run away in debt, and, in fact, madesome jokes suitable to the occasion and the small-beer.She was in high spirits and good humour, and trippedacross the market-place very briskly. She wanted to seeJos that instant. The Major laughed at the impetuousaffection Mrs. Amelia exhibited; for, in truth, it was notvery often that she wanted her brother "that instant."

　　They found the civilian in his saloon on the first-floor;he had been pacing the room, and biting his nails, andlooking over the market-place towards the Elephant ahundred times at least during the past hour whilst Emmywas closeted with her friend in the garret and the Majorwas beating the tattoo on the sloppy tables of the publicroom below, and he was, on his side too, very anxious tosee Mrs. Osborne.

　　"Well?" said he.

　　"The poor dear creature, how she has suffered!"Emmy said.

　　"God bless my soul, yes," Jos said, wagging his head,so that his cheeks quivered like jellies.

　　"She may have Payne's room, who can go upstairs,"Emmy continued. Payne was a staid English maid andpersonal attendant upon Mrs. Osborne, to whom thecourier, as in duty bound, paid court, and whom Georgyused to "lark" dreadfully with accounts of Germanrobbers and ghosts. She passed her time chiefly in grumbling,in ordering about her mistress, and in stating her intentionto return the next morning to her native village ofClapham. "She may have Payne's room," Emmy said.

　　"Why, you don't mean to say you are going to havethat woman into the house?" bounced out the Major,jumping up.

　　"Of course we are," said Amelia in the most innocentway in the world. "Don't be angry and break thefurniture, Major Dobbin. Of course we are going to have herhere."

　　"Of course, my dear," Jos said.

　　"The poor creature, after all her sufferings," Emmycontinued; "her horrid banker broken and run away; herhusband--wicked wretch--having deserted her and takenher child away from her" (here she doubled her twolittle fists and held them in a most menacing attitudebefore her, so that the Major was charmed to seesuch a dauntless virago) "the poor dear thing! quite aloneand absolutely forced to give lessons in singing to get herbread--and not have her here!"

　　"Take lessons, my dear Mrs. George," cried the Major,"but don't have her in the house. I implore you don't."

　　"Pooh," said Jos.

　　"You who are always good and kind--always used tobe at any rate--I'm astonished at you, Major William,"Amelia cried. "Why, what is the moment to help her butwhen she is so miserable? Now is the time to be ofservice to her. The oldest friend I ever had, and not--"

　　"She was not always your friend, Amelia," the Majorsaid, for he was quite angry. This allusion was too muchfor Emmy, who, looking the Major almost fiercely in theface, said, "For shame, Major Dobbin!" and after havingfired this shot, she walked out of the room with a mostmajestic air and shut her own door briskly on herselfand her outraged dignity.

　　"To allude to that!" she said, when the door wasclosed. "Oh, it was cruel of him to remind me of it," andshe looked up at George's picture, which hung there asusual, with the portrait of the boy underneath. "It wascruel of him. If I had forgiven it, ought he to havespoken? No. And it is from his own lips that I know howwicked and groundless my jealousy was; and that youwere pure--oh, yes, you were pure, my saint inheaven!"

　　She paced the room, trembling and indignant. She wentand leaned on the chest of drawers over which the picturehung, and gazed and gazed at it. Its eyes seemed to lookdown on her with a reproach that deepened as she looked.The early dear, dear memories of that brief prime of loverushed back upon her. The wound which years hadscarcely cicatrized bled afresh, and oh, how bitterly! Shecould not bear the reproaches of the husband therebefore her. It couldn't be. Never, never.

　　Poor Dobbin; poor old William! That unlucky wordhad undone the work of many a year--the long laboriousedifice of a life of love and constancy--raised too uponwhat secret and hidden foundations, wherein lay buriedpassions, uncounted struggles, unknown sacrifices--alittle word was spoken, and down fell the fair palace ofhope--one word, and away flew the bird which he hadbeen trying all his life to lure!

　　William, though he saw by Amelia's looks that a greatcrisis had come, nevertheless continued to implore Sedley,in the most energetic terms, to beware of Rebecca; and heeagerly, almost frantically, adjured Jos not to receiveher. He besought Mr. Sedley to inquire at least regardingher; told him how he had heard that she was in thecompany of gamblers and people of ill repute; pointedout what evil she had done in former days, how sheand Crawley had misled poor George into ruin, how shewas now parted from her husband, by her own confession,and, perhaps, for good reason. What a dangerouscompanion she would be for his sister, who knew nothingof the affairs of the world! William implored Jos, withall the eloquence which he could bring to bear, and agreat deal more energy than this quiet gentleman wasordinarily in the habit of showing, to keep Rebecca outof his household.

　　Had he been less violent, or more dexterous, he mighthave succeeded in his supplications to Jos; but the civilianwas not a little jealous of the airs of superioritywhich the Major constantly exhibited towards him, ashe fancied (indeed, he had imparted his opinions to Mr.Kirsch, the courier, whose bills Major Dobbin checked onthis journey, and who sided with his master), and hebegan a blustering speech about his competency todefend his own honour, his desire not to have his affairsmeddled with, his intention, in fine, to rebel against theMajor, when the colloquy--rather a long and stormy one--was put an end to in the simplest way possible, namely,by the arrival of Mrs. Becky, with a porter fromthe Elephant Hotel in charge of her very meagre baggage.

　　She greeted her host with affectionate respect andmade a shrinking, but amicable salutation to MajorDobbin, who, as her instinct assured her at once, washer enemy, and had been speaking against her; and thebustle and clatter consequent upon her arrival broughtAmelia out of her room. Emmy went up and embracedher guest with the greatest warmth, and took no noticeof the Major, except to fling him an angry look--themost unjust and scornful glance that had perhaps everappeared in that poor little woman's face since she wasborn. But she had private reasons of her own, and wasbent upon being angry with him. And Dobbin, indignantat the injustice, not at the defeat, went off, making her abow quite as haughty as the killing curtsey with whichthe little woman chose to bid him farewell.

　　He being gone, Emmy was particularly lively andaffectionate to Rebecca, and bustled about the apartmentsand installed her guest in her room with an eagerness andactivity seldom exhibited by our placid little friend. Butwhen an act of injustice is to be done, especially byweak people, it is best that it should be done quickly,and Emmy thought she was displaying a great deal offirmness and proper feeling and veneration for the lateCaptain Osborne in her present behaviour.

　　Georgy came in from the fetes for dinner-time andfound four covers laid as usual; but one of the placeswas occupied by a lady, instead of by Major Dobbin."Hullo! where's Dob?" the young gentleman asked withhis usual simplicity of language. "Major Dobbin is diningout, I suppose," his mother said, and, drawing the boyto her, kissed him a great deal, and put his hair off hisforehead, and introduced him to Mrs. Crawley. "Thisis my boy, Rebecca," Mrs. Osborne said--as much as tosay--can the world produce anything like that? Beckylooked at him with rapture and pressed his hand fondly."Dear boy!" she said--"he is just like my--" Emotionchoked her further utterance, but Amelia understood, aswell as if she had spoken, that Becky was thinking of herown blessed child. However, the company of her friendconsoled Mrs. Crawley, and she ate a very good dinner.

　　During the repast, she had occasion to speak severaltimes, when Georgy eyed her and listened to her. At thedesert Emmy was gone out to superintend furtherdomestic arrangements; Jos was in his great chair dozingover Galignani; Georgy and the new arrival sat close toeach other--he had continued to look at her knowinglymore than once, and at last he laid down thenutcrackers.

　　"I say," said Georgy.

　　"What do you say?" Becky said, laughing.

　　"You're the lady I saw in the mask at the Rouge etNoir."

　　"Hush! you little sly creature," Becky said, takingup his hand and kissing it. "Your uncle was there too,and Mamma mustn't know."

　　"Oh, no--not by no means," answered the little fellow.

　　"You see we are quite good friends already," Beckysaid to Emmy, who now re-entered; and it must be ownedthat Mrs. Osborne had introduced a most judicious andamiable companion into her house.

　　William, in a state of great indignation, though stillunaware of all the treason that was in store for him, walkedabout the town wildly until he fell upon the Secretary ofLegation, Tapeworm, who invited him to dinner. As theywere discussing that meal, he took occasion to ask theSecretary whether he knew anything about a certainMrs. Rawdon Crawley, who had, he believed, madesome noise in London; and then Tapeworm, who ofcourse knew all the London gossip, and was besides arelative of Lady Gaunt, poured out into the astonishedMajor's ears such a history about Becky and her husbandas astonished the querist, and supplied all the points ofthis narrative, for it was at that very table years agothat the present writer had the pleasure of hearing thetale. Tufto, Steyne, the Crawleys, and their history--everything connected with Becky and her previous lifepassed under the record of the bitter diplomatist. He kneweverything and a great deal besides, about all the world--in a word, he made the most astounding revelations tothe simple-hearted Major. When Dobbin said that Mrs.Osborne and Mr. Sedley had taken her into their house,Tapeworm burst into a peal of laughter which shockedthe Major, and asked if they had not better send into theprison and take in one or two of the gentlemen in shavedheads and yellow jackets who swept the streets ofPumpernickel, chained in pairs, to board and lodge, and actas tutor to that little scapegrace Georgy.

　　This information astonished and horrified the Major nota little. It had been agreed in the morning (before meetingwith Rebecca) that Amelia should go to the Courtball that night. There would be the place where he shouldtell her. The Major went home, and dressed himself in hisuniform, and repaired to Court, in hopes to see Mrs.Osborne. She never came. When he returned to hislodgings all the lights in the Sedley tenement were putout. He could not see her till the morning. I don't knowwhat sort of a night's rest he had with this frightfulsecret in bed with him.

　　At the earliest convenient hour in the morning he senthis servant across the way with a note, saying that hewished very particularly to speak with her. A messagecame back to say that Mrs. Osborne was exceedinglyunwell and was keeping her room.

　　She, too, had been awake all that night. She had beenthinking of a thing which had agitated her mind ahundred times before. A hundred times on the point of yielding,she had shrunk back from a sacrifice which she feltwas too much for her. She couldn't, in spite of his loveand constancy and her own acknowledged regard,respect, and gratitude. What are benefits, what isconstancy, or merit? One curl of a girl's ringlet, one hair of awhisker, will turn the scale against them all in a minute.They did not weigh with Emmy more than with otherwomen. She had tried them; wanted to make them pass;could not; and the pitiless little woman had found apretext, and determined to be free.

　　When at length, in the afternoon, the Major gainedadmission to Amelia, instead of the cordial andaffectionate greeting, to which he had been accustomed nowfor many a long day, he received the salutation of acurtsey, and of a little gloved hand, retracted the momentafter it was accorded to him.

　　Rebecca, too, was in the room, and advanced to meethim with a smile and an extended hand. Dobbin drewback rather confusedly, "I--I beg your pardon, m'am,"he said; "but I am bound to tell you that it is not as yourfriend that I am come here now."

　　"Pooh! damn; don't let us have this sort of thing!"Jos cried out, alarmed, and anxious to get rid of a scene.

　　"I wonder what Major Dobbin has to say againstRebecca?" Amelia said in a low, clear voice with a slightquiver in it, and a very determined look about the eyes.

　　"I will not have this sort of thing in my house," Josagain interposed. "I say I will not have it; and Dobbin, Ibeg, sir, you'll stop it." And he looked round, tremblingand turning very red, and gave a great puff, andmade for his door.

　　"Dear friend!" Rebecca said with angelic sweetness,"do hear what Major Dobbin has to say against me."

　　"I will not hear it, I say," squeaked out Jos at thetop of his voice, and, gathering up his dressing-gown, hewas gone.

　　"We are only two women," Amelia said. "You canspeak now, sir."

　　"This manner towards me is one which scarcelybecomes you, Amelia," the Major answered haughtily; "norI believe am I guilty of habitual harshness to women. Itis not a pleasure to me to do the duty which I am cometo do."

　　"Pray proceed with it quickly, if you please, MajorDobbin," said Amelia, who was more and more in a pet. Theexpression of Dobbin's face, as she spoke in thisimperious manner, was not pleasant.

　　"I came to say--and as you stay, Mrs. Crawley, I mustsay it in your presence--that I think you--you oughtnot to form a member of the family of my friends. Alady who is separated from her husband, who travels notunder her own name, who frequents public gaming-tables--"

　　"It was to the ball I went," cried out Becky.

　　"--is not a fit companion for Mrs. Osborne and herson," Dobbin went on: "and I may add that there arepeople here who know you, and who profess to knowthat regarding your conduct about which I don't evenwish to speak before--before Mrs. Osborne."

　　"Yours is a very modest and convenient sort of calumny,Major Dobbin," Rebecca said. "You leave me underthe weight of an accusation which, after all, is unsaid.What is it? Is it unfaithfulness to my husband? I scorn itand defy anybody to prove it--I defy you, I say. Myhonour is as untouched as that of the bitterest enemywho ever maligned me. Is it of being poor, forsaken,wretched, that you accuse me? Yes, I am guilty of thosefaults, and punished for them every day. Let me go,Emmy. It is only to suppose that I have not met you,and I am no worse to-day than I was yesterday. It isonly to suppose that the night is over and the poorwanderer is on her way. Don't you remember the songwe used to sing in old, dear old days? I have beenwandering ever since then--a poor castaway, scorned forbeing miserable, and insulted because I am alone. Let mego: my stay here interferes with the plans of thisgentleman."

　　"Indeed it does, madam," said the Major. "If I haveany authority in this house--"

　　"Authority, none!" broke out Amelia "Rebecca,you stay with me. I won't desert you because you havebeen persecuted, or insult you because--because MajorDobbin chooses to do so. Come away, dear." And thetwo women made towards the door.

　　William opened it. As they were going out, however, hetook Amelia's hand and said--"Will you stay a momentand speak to me?"

　　"He wishes to speak to you away from me," saidBecky, looking like a martyr. Amelia gripped her hand inreply.

　　"Upon my honour it is not about you that I am goingto speak," Dobbin said. "Come back, Amelia," and shecame. Dobbin bowed to Mrs. Crawley, as he shut thedoor upon her. Amelia looked at him, leaning against theglass: her face and her lips were quite white.

　　"I was confused when I spoke just now," the Majorsaid after a pause, "and I misused the word authority."

　　"You did," said Amelia with her teeth chattering.

　　"At least I have claims to be heard," Dobbincontinued.

　　"It is generous to remind me of our obligations to you,"the woman answered.

　　"The claims I mean are those left me by George'sfather," William said.

　　"Yes, and you insulted his memory. You did yesterday.You know you did. And I will never forgive you. Never!"said Amelia. She shot out each little sentence in a tremorof anger and emotion.

　　"You don't mean that, Amelia?" William said sadly."You don't mean that these words, uttered in a hurriedmoment, are to weigh against a whole life's devotion? Ithink that George's memory has not been injured by theway in which I have dealt with it, and if we are come tobandying reproaches, I at least merit none from hiswidow and the mother of his son. Reflect, afterwards when--when you are at leisure, and your conscience willwithdraw this accusation. It does even now." Amelia helddown her head.

　　"It is not that speech of yesterday," he continued,"which moves you. That is but the pretext, Amelia, or Ihave loved you and watched you for fifteen years in vain.Have I not learned in that time to read all your feelingsand look into your thoughts? I know what your heartis capable of: it can cling faithfully to a recollection andcherish a fancy, but it can't feel such an attachment asmine deserves to mate with, and such as I would havewon from a woman more generous than you. No, youare not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you.I knew all along that the prize I had set my life on wasnot worth the winning; that I was a fool, with fondfancies, too, bartering away my all of truth and ardouragainst your little feeble remnant of love. I will bargainno more: I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You arevery good-natured, and have done your best, but youcouldn't--you couldn't reach up to the height of theattachment which I bore you, and which a loftier soul thanyours might have been proud to share. Good-bye, Amelia!I have watched your struggle. Let it end. We are bothweary of it."

　　Amelia stood scared and silent as William thussuddenly broke the chain by which she held him anddeclared his independence and superiority. He had placedhimself at her feet so long that the poor little womanhad been accustomed to trample upon him. She didn'twish to marry him, but she wished to keep him. Shewished to give him nothing, but that he should give herall. It is a bargain not unfrequently levied in love.

　　William's sally had quite broken and cast her down.Her assault was long since over and beaten back.

　　"Am I to understand then, that you are going--away,William?" she said.

　　He gave a sad laugh. "I went once before," he said,"and came back after twelve years. We were young then,Amelia. Good-bye. I have spent enough of my life at thisplay."

　　Whilst they had been talking, the door into Mrs. Osborne'sroom had opened ever so little; indeed, Beckyhad kept a hold of the handle and had turned it on theinstant when Dobbin quitted it, and she heard every wordof the conversation that had passed between these two."What a noble heart that man has," she thought, andhow shamefully that woman plays with it!" She admiredDobbin; she bore him no rancour for the part he hadtaken against her. It was an open move in the game,and played fairly. "Ah!" she thought, "if I could have hadsuch a husband as that--a man with a heart and brainstoo! I would not have minded his large feet"; and runninginto her room, she absolutely bethought herself ofsomething, and wrote him a note, beseeching him to stop for afew days--not to think of going--and that she couldserve him with A.

　　The parting was over. Once more poor William walkedto the door and was gone; and the little widow, theauthor of all this work, had her will, and had won hervictory, and was left to enjoy it as she best might. Letthe ladies envy her triumph.

　　At the romantic hour of dinner, Mr. Georgy made hisappearance and again remarked the absence of "OldDob." The meal was eaten in silence by the party. Jos'sappetite not being diminished, but Emmy takingnothing at all.

　　After the meal, Georgy was lolling in the cushions ofthe old window, a large window, with three sides of glassabutting from the gable, and commanding on one sidethe market-place, where the Elephant is, his mother beingbusy hard by, when he remarked symptoms ofmovement at the Major's house on the other side of the street.

　　"Hullo!" said he, "there's Dob's trap--they are bringingit out of the court-yard." The "trap" in questionwas a carriage which the Major had bought for six poundssterling, and about which they used to rally him a gooddeal.

　　Emmy gave a little start, but said nothing.

　　"Hullo!" Georgy continued, "there's Francis coming outwith the portmanteaus, and Kunz, the one-eyedpostilion, coming down the market with three schimmels.Look at his boots and yellow jacket--ain't he a rumone? Why--they're putting the horses to Dob's carriage.Is he going anywhere?"

　　"Yes," said Emmy, "he is going on a journey."

　　"Going on a journey; and when is he coming back?"

　　"He is--not coming back," answered Emmy.

　　"Not coming back!" cried out Georgy, jumping up."Stay here, sir," roared out Jos. "Stay, Georgy," said hismother with a very sad face. The boy stopped, kickedabout the room, jumped up and down from the window-seat with his knees, and showed every symptom ofuneasiness and curiosity.

　　The horses were put to. The baggage was strappedon. Francis came out with his master's sword, cane,and umbrella tied up together, and laid them in thewell, and his desk and old tin cocked-hat case, whichhe placed under the seat. Francis brought out thestained old blue cloak lined with red camlet, which hadwrapped the owner up any time these fifteen years, andhad manchen Sturm erlebt, as a favourite song of thosedays said. It had been new for the campaign of Waterlooand had covered George and William after the nightof Quatre Bras.

　　Old Burcke, the landlord of the lodgings, came out,then Francis, with more packages--final packages--thenMajor William--Burcke wanted to kiss him. The Majorwas adored by all people with whom he had to do. Itwas with difficulty he could escape from thisdemonstration of attachment.

　　"By Jove, I will go!" screamed out George. "Give himthis," said Becky, quite interested, and put a paper intothe boy's hand. He had rushed down the stairs and flungacross the street in a minute--the yellow postilion wascracking his whip gently.

　　William had got into the carriage, released from theembraces of his landlord. George bounded in afterwards,and flung his arms round the Major's neck (as they sawfrom the window), and began asking him multipliedquestions. Then he felt in his waistcoat pocket and gave hima note. William seized at it rather eagerly, he opened ittrembling, but instantly his countenance changed, andhe tore the paper in two and dropped it out of thecarriage. He kissed Georgy on the head, and the boy gotout, doubling his fists into his eyes, and with the aid ofFrancis. He lingered with his hand on the panel. Fort,Schwager! The yellow postilion cracked his whipprodigiously, up sprang Francis to the box, away went theschimmels, and Dobbin with his head on his breast. Henever looked up as they passed under Amelia's window,and Georgy, left alone in the street, burst out cryingin the face of all the crowd.

　　Emmy's maid heard him howling again during thenight and brought him some preserved apricots toconsole him. She mingled her lamentations with his. All thepoor, all the humble, all honest folks, all good men whoknew him, loved that kind-hearted and simple gentleman.

　　As for Emmy, had she not done her duty? She had herpicture of George for a consolation.