Chapter XXXV: Widow and Mother

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　The news of the great fights of Quatre Bras and Waterlooreached England at the same time. The Gazette firstpublished the result of the two battles; at which gloriousintelligence all England thrilled with triumph and fear.Particulars then followed; and after the announcement ofthe victories came the list of the wounded and the slain.Who can tell the dread with which that catalogue wasopened and read! Fancy, at every village and homesteadalmost through the three kingdoms, the great newscoming of the battles in Flanders, and the feelings ofexultation and gratitude, bereavement and sickening dismay,when the lists of the regimental losses were gone through,and it became known whether the dear friend and relativehad escaped or fallen. Anybody who will take the troubleof looking back to a file of the newspapers of thetime, must, even now, feel at second-hand this breathlesspause of expectation. The lists of casualties are carriedon from day to day: you stop in the midst as in a storywhich is to be continued in our next. Think what thefeelings must have been as those papers followed eachother fresh from the press; and if such an interest couldbe felt in our country, and about a battle where buttwenty thousand of our people were engaged, think ofthe condition of Europe for twenty years before, wherepeople were fighting, not by thousands, but by millions;each one of whom as he struck his enemy woundedhorribly some other innocent heart far away.

　　The news which that famous Gazette brought to theOsbornes gave a dreadful shock to the family and its chief.The girls indulged unrestrained in their grief. Thegloom-stricken old father was still more borne down by his fateand sorrow. He strove to think that a judgment was onthe boy for his disobedience. He dared not own that theseverity of the sentence frightened him, and that itsfulfilment had come too soon upon his curses. Sometimes ashuddering terror struck him, as if he had been the authorof the doom which he had called down on his son. Therewas a chance before of reconciliation. The boy's wifemight have died; or he might have come back and said,Father I have sinned. But there was no hope now. Hestood on the other side of the gulf impassable, hauntinghis parent with sad eyes. He remembered them oncebefore so in a fever, when every one thought the lad wasdying, and he lay on his bed speechless, and gazing with adreadful gloom. Good God! how the father clung to thedoctor then, and with what a sickening anxiety hefollowed him: what a weight of grief was off his mind when,after the crisis of the fever, the lad recovered, and lookedat his father once more with eyes that recognised him.But now there was no help or cure, or chance ofreconcilement: above all, there were no humble words tosoothe vanity outraged and furious, or bring to its naturalflow the poisoned, angry blood. And it is hard to saywhich pang it was that tore the proud father's heart mostkeenly--that his son should have gone out of the reachof his forgiveness, or that the apology which his ownpride expected should have escaped him.

　　Whatever his sensations might have been, however, thestem old man would have no confidant. He nevermentioned his son's name to his daughters; but ordered theelder to place all the females of the establishment inmourning; and desired that the male servants should besimilarly attired in deep black. All parties and entertainments,of course, were to be put off. No communicationswere made to his future son-in-law, whose marriage-dayhad been fixed: but there was enough in Mr. Osborne'sappearance to prevent Mr. Bullock from making anyinquiries, or in any way pressing forward that ceremony.He and the ladies whispered about it under their voicesin the drawing-room sometimes, whither the father nevercame. He remained constantly in his own study; thewhole front part of the house being closed until sometime after the completion of the general mourning.

　　About three weeks after the 18th of June, Mr.Osborne's acquaintance, Sir William Dobbin, called at Mr.Osborne's house in Russell Square, with a very pale andagitated face, and insisted upon seeing that gentleman.Ushered into his room, and after a few words, whichneither the speaker nor the host understood, the formerproduced from an inclosure a letter sealed with a largered seal. "My son, Major Dobbin," the Alderman said,with some hesitation, "despatched me a letter by anofficer of the --th, who arrived in town to-day. My son'sletter contains one for you, Osborne." The Aldermanplaced the letter on the table, and Osborne stared at himfor a moment or two in silence. His looks frightened theambassador, who after looking guiltily for a little time atthe grief-stricken man, hurried away without anotherword.

　　The letter was in George's well-known bold handwriting.It was that one which he had written before daybreakon the 16th of June, and just before he took leaveof Amelia. The great red seal was emblazoned with thesham coat of arms which Osborne had assumed fromthe Peerage, with "Pax in bello" for a motto; that of theducal house with which the vain old man tried to fancyhimself connected. The hand that signed it would neverhold pen or sword more. The very seal that sealed ithad been robbed from George's dead body as it lay on thefield of battle. The father knew nothing of this, but sat andlooked at the letter in terrified vacancy. He almost fellwhen he went to open it.

　　Have you ever had a difference with a dear friend?How his letters, written in the period of love andconfidence, sicken and rebuke you! What a dreary mourningit is to dwell upon those vehement protests of deadaffection! What lying epitaphs they make over the corpse oflove! What dark, cruel comments upon Life and Vanities!Most of us have got or written drawers full of them.They are closet-skeletons which we keep and shun.Osborne trembled long before the letter from his deadson.

　　The poor boy's letter did not say much. He had beentoo proud to acknowledge the tenderness which his heartfelt. He only said, that on the eve of a great battle, hewished to bid his father farewell, and solemnly to implorehis good offices for the wife--it might be for the child--whom he left behind him. He owned with contrition thathis irregularities and his extravagance had already wasteda large part of his mother's little fortune. He thanked hisfather for his former generous conduct; and he promisedhim that if he fell on the field or survived it, he wouldact in a manner worthy of the name of George Osborne.

　　His English habit, pride, awkwardness perhaps, hadprevented him from saying more. His father could notsee the kiss George had placed on the superscription ofhis letter. Mr. Osborne dropped it with the bitterest,deadliest pang of balked affection and revenge. His sonwas still beloved and unforgiven.

　　About two months afterwards, however, as the youngladies of the family went to church with their father, theyremarked how he took a different seat from that whichhe usually occupied when he chose to attend divineworship; and that from his cushion opposite, he looked up atthe wall over their heads. This caused the young womenlikewise to gaze in the direction towards which theirfather's gloomy eyes pointed: and they saw an elaboratemonument upon the wall, where Britannia was representedweeping over an urn, and a broken sword and acouchant lion indicated that the piece of sculpture hadbeen erected in honour of a deceased warrior. Thesculptors of those days had stocks of such funerealemblems in hand; as you may see still on the walls of St.Paul's, which are covered with hundreds of thesebraggart heathen allegories. There was a constant demandfor them during the first fifteen years of the presentcentury.

　　Under the memorial in question were emblazoned thewell-known and pompous Osborne arms; and theinscription said, that the monument was "Sacred to thememory of George Osborne, Junior, Esq., late a Captainin his Majesty's --th regiment of foot, who fell on the18th of June, 1815, aged 28 years, while fighting for hisking and country in the glorious victory of Waterloo.Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."

　　The sight of that stone agitated the nerves of thesisters so much, that Miss Maria was compelled to leavethe church. The congregation made way respectfully forthose sobbing girls clothed in deep black, and pitied thestern old father seated opposite the memorial of the deadsoldier. "Will he forgive Mrs. George?" the girls said tothemselves as soon as their ebullition of grief was over.Much conversation passed too among the acquaintancesof the Osborne family, who knew of the rupture betweenthe son and father caused by the former's marriage, asto the chance of a reconciliation with the young widow.There were bets among the gentlemen both about RussellSquare and in the City.

　　If the sisters had any anxiety regarding the possiblerecognition of Amelia as a daughter of the family, itwas increased presently, and towards the end of theautumn, by their father's announcement that he was goingabroad. He did not say whither, but they knew at oncethat his steps would be turned towards Belgium, and wereaware that George's widow was still in Brussels. Theyhad pretty accurate news indeed of poor Amelia fromLady Dobbin and her daughters. Our honest Captain hadbeen promoted in consequence of the death of the secondMajor of the regiment on the field; and the brave O'Dowd,who had distinguished himself greatly here as upon alloccasions where he had a chance to show his coolnessand valour, was a Colonel and Companion of the Bath.

　　Very many of the brave --th, who had sufferedseverely upon both days of action, were still at Brusselsin the autumn, recovering of their wounds. The city wasa vast military hospital for months after the great battles;and as men and officers began to rally from their hurts,the gardens and places of public resort swarmed withmaimed warriors, old and young, who, just rescued out ofdeath, fell to gambling, and gaiety, and love-making, aspeople of Vanity Fair will do. Mr. Osborne found outsome of the --th easily. He knew their uniform quitewell, and had been used to follow all the promotions andexchanges in the regiment, and loved to talk about it andits officers as if he had been one of the number. On theday after his arrival at Brussels, and as he issued fromhis hotel, which faced the park, he saw a soldier in thewell-known facings, reposing on a stone bench in thegarden, and went and sate down trembling by thewounded convalescent man.

　　"Were you in Captain Osborne's company?" he said,and added, after a pause, "he was my son, sir."

　　The man was not of the Captain's company, but helifted up his unwounded arm and touched-his cap sadlyand respectfully to the haggard broken-spirited gentlemanwho questioned him. "The whole army didn't containa finer or a better officer," the soldier said. "The Sergeantof the Captain's company (Captain Raymond had itnow), was in town, though, and was just well of a shotin the shoulder. His honour might see him if he liked,who could tell him anything he wanted to know about--about the --th's actions. But his honour had seenMajor Dobbin, no doubt, the brave Captain's greatfriend; and Mrs. Osborne, who was here too, and hadbeen very bad, he heard everybody say. They say shewas out of her mind like for six weeks or more. But yourhonour knows all about that--and asking your pardon"--the man added.

　　Osborne put a guinea into the soldier's hand, and toldhim he should have another if he would bring the Sergeantto the Hotel du Parc; a promise which very soonbrought the desired officer to Mr. Osborne's presence.And the first soldier went away; and after telling acomrade or two how Captain Osborne's father was arrived,and what a free-handed generous gentleman he was, theywent and made good cheer with drink and feasting, aslong as the guineas lasted which had come from theproud purse of the mourning old father.

　　In the Sergeant's company, who was also just convalescent,Osborne made the journey of Waterloo andQuatre Bras, a journey which thousands of his countrymenwere then taking. He took the Sergeant with him inhis carriage, and went through both fields under hisguidance. He saw the point of the road where the regimentmarched into action on the 16th, and the slope downwhich they drove the French cavalry who were pressingon the retreating Belgians. There was the spot where thenoble Captain cut down the French officer who wasgrappling with the young Ensign for the colours, theColour-Sergeants having been shot down. Along this roadthey retreated on the next day, and here was the bankat which the regiment bivouacked under the rain of thenight of the seventeenth. Further on was the positionwhich they took and held during the day, forming timeafter time to receive the charge of the enemy's horsemenand lying down under the shelter of the bank from thefurious French cannonade. And it was at this declivitywhen at evening the whole English line received the orderto advance, as the enemy fell back after his last charge,that the Captain, hurraying and rushing down the hillwaving his sword, received a shot and fell dead. "It wasMajor Dobbin who took back the Captain's body toBrussels," the Sergeant said, in a low voice, "and had himburied, as your honour knows." The peasants and relic-hunters about the place were screaming round the pair,as the soldier told his story, offering for sale all sorts ofmementoes of the fight, crosses, and epaulets, andshattered cuirasses, and eagles.

　　Osborne gave a sumptuous reward to the Sergeantwhen he parted with him, after having visited the scenesof his son's last exploits. His burial-place he had alreadyseen. Indeed, he had driven thither immediately after hisarrival at Brussels. George's body lay in the pretty burial-ground of Laeken, near the city; in which place, havingonce visited it on a party of pleasure, he had lightlyexpressed a wish to have his grave made. And there theyoung officer was laid by his friend, in the unconsecratedcorner of the garden, separated by a little hedge fromthe temples and towers and plantations of flowers andshrubs, under which the Roman Catholic dead repose. Itseemed a humiliation to old Osborne to think that hisson, an English gentleman, a captain in the famous Britisharmy, should not be found worthy to lie in ground wheremere foreigners were buried. Which of us is there cantell how much vanity lurks in our warmest regard forothers, and how selfish our love is? Old Osborne didnot speculate much upon the mingled nature of his feelings,and how his instinct and selfishness were combatingtogether. He firmly believed that everything he did wasright, that he ought on all occasions to have his own way--and like the sting of a wasp or serpent his hatredrushed out armed and poisonous against anything likeopposition. He was proud of his hatred as of everythingelse. Always to be right, always to trample forward, andnever to doubt, are not these the great qualities withwhich dullness takes the lead in the world?

　　As after the drive to Waterloo, Mr. Osborne's carriagewas nearing the gates of the city at sunset, they metanother open barouche, in which were a couple of ladiesand a gentleman, and by the side of which an officer wasriding. Osborne gave a start back, and the Sergeant,seated with him, cast a look of surprise at his neighbour,as he touched his cap to the officer, who mechanicallyreturned his salute. It was Amelia, with the lame youngEnsign by her side, and opposite to her her faithfulfriend Mrs. O'Dowd. It was Amelia, but how changedfrom the fresh and comely girl Osborne knew. Her facewas white and thin. Her pretty brown hair was partedunder a widow's cap--the poor child. Her eyes werefixed, and looking nowhere. They stared blank in theface of Osborne, as the carriages crossed each other, butshe did not know him; nor did he recognise her, untillooking up, he saw Dobbin riding by her: and then heknew who it was. He hated her. He did not know howmuch until he saw her there. When her carriage hadpassed on, he turned and stared at the Sergeant, with acurse and defiance in his eye cast at his companion, whocould not help looking at him--as much as to say "Howdare you look at me? Damn you! I do hate her. It is shewho has tumbled my hopes and all my pride down.""Tell the scoundrel to drive on quick," he shouted withan oath, to the lackey on the box. A minute afterwards, ahorse came clattering over the pavement behindOsborne's carriage, and Dobbin rode up. His thoughtshad been elsewhere as the carriages passed each other,and it was not until he had ridden some paces forward,that he remembered it was Osborne who had just passedhim. Then he turned to examine if the sight of her father-in-law had made any impression on Amelia, but the poorgirl did not know who had passed. Then William, whodaily used to accompany her in his drives, taking out hiswatch, made some excuse about an engagement which hesuddenly recollected, and so rode off. She did notremark that either: but sate looking before her, over thehomely landscape towards the woods in the distance, bywhich George marched away.

　　Mr. Osborne, Mr. Osborne!" cried Dobbin, as he rodeup and held out his hand. Osborne made no motion totake it, but shouted out once more and with another curseto his servant to drive on.

　　Dobbin laid his hand on the carriage side. "I will seeyou, sir," he said. "I have a message for you."

　　"From that woman?" said Osborne, fiercely.

　　"No," replied the other, "from your son"; at whichOsborne fell back into the corner of his carriage, andDobbin allowing it to pass on, rode close behind it, andso through the town until they reached Mr. Osborne'shotel, and without a word. There he followed Osborneup to his apartments. George had often been in therooms; they were the lodgings which the Crawleys hadoccupied during their stay in Brussels.

　　"Pray, have you any commands for me, CaptainDobbin, or, I beg your pardon, I should say Major Dobbin,since better men than you are dead, and you step intotheir shoes?" said Mr. Osborne, in that sarcastic tonewhich he sometimes was pleased to assume.

　　"Better men are dead," Dobbin replied. "I want tospeak to you about one."

　　"Make it short, sir," said the other with an oath,scowling at his visitor.

　　"I am here as his closest friend," the Major resumed,"and the executor of his will. He made it before he wentinto action. Are you aware how small his means are,and of the straitened circumstances of his widow?"

　　"I don't know his widow, sir," Osborne said. "Let hergo back to her father." But the gentleman whom headdressed was determined to remain in good temper, andwent on without heeding the interruption.

　　"Do you know, sir, Mrs. Osborne's condition? Her lifeand her reason almost have been shaken by the blowwhich has fallen on her. It is very doubtful whether shewill rally. There is a chance left for her, however, and itis about this I came to speak to you. She will be a mothersoon. Will you visit the parent's offence upon the child'shead? or will you forgive the child for poor George'ssake?"

　　Osborne broke out into a rhapsody of self-praise andimprecations;--by the first, excusing himself to his ownconscience for his conduct; by the second, exaggeratingthe undutifulness of George. No father in all Englandcould have behaved more generously to a son, who hadrebelled against him wickedly. He had died without evenso much as confessing he was wrong. Let him takethe consequences of his undutifulness and folly. As forhimself, Mr. Osborne, he was a man of his word. Hehad sworn never to speak to that woman, or to recognizeher as his son's wife. "And that's what you may tellher," he concluded with an oath; "and that's what I willstick to to the last day of my life."

　　There was no hope from that quarter then. The widowmust live on her slender pittance, or on such aid as Joscould give her. "I might tell her, and she would not heedit," thought Dobbin, sadly: for the poor girl's thoughtswere not here at all since her catastrophe, and, stupefiedunder the pressure of her sorrow, good and evil werealike indifferent to her.

　　So, indeed, were even friendship and kindness. Shereceived them both uncomplainingly, and having acceptedthem, relapsed into her grief.

　　Suppose some twelve months after the above conversationtook place to have passed in the life of our poorAmelia. She has spent the first portion of that time in asorrow so profound and pitiable, that we who have beenwatching and describing some of the emotions of thatweak and tender heart, must draw back in the presenceof the cruel grief under which it is bleeding. Tread silentlyround the hapless couch of the poor prostrate soul.Shut gently the door of the dark chamber wherein shesuffers, as those kind people did who nursed her throughthe first months of her pain, and never left her untilheaven had sent her consolation. A day came--ofalmost terrified delight and wonder--when the poorwidowed girl pressed a child upon her breast--a child, withthe eyes of George who was gone--a little boy, as beautifulas a cherub. What a miracle it was to hear its firstcry! How she laughed and wept over it--how love, andhope, and prayer woke again in her bosom as the babynestled there. She was safe. The doctors who attendedher, and had feared for her life or for her brain, hadwaited anxiously for this crisis before they couldpronounce that either was secure. It was worth the longmonths of doubt and dread which the persons who hadconstantly been with her had passed, to see her eyes oncemore beaming tenderly upon them.

　　Our friend Dobbin was one of them. It was he whobrought her back to England and to her mother's house;when Mrs. O'Dowd, receiving a peremptory summonsfrom her Colonel, had been forced to quit her patient.To see Dobbin holding the infant, and to hear Amelia'slaugh of triumph as she watched him, would have doneany man good who had a sense of humour. William wasthe godfather of the child, and exerted his ingenuity inthe purchase of cups, spoons, pap-boats, and corals forthis little Christian.

　　How his mother nursed him, and dressed him, andlived upon him; how she drove away all nurses, andwould scarce allow any hand but her own to touch him;how she considered that the greatest favour she couldconfer upon his godfather, Major Dobbin, was to allowthe Major occasionally to dandle him, need not be toldhere. This child was her being. Her existence was amaternal caress. She enveloped the feeble and unconsciouscreature with love and worship. It was her lifewhich the baby drank in from her bosom. Of nights, andwhen alone, she had stealthy and intense raptures ofmotherly love, such as God's marvellous care has awardedto the female instinct--joys how far higher and lowerthan reason--blind beautiful devotions which only women'shearts know. It was William Dobbin's task to museupon these movements of Amelia's, and to watch herheart; and if his love made him divine almost all the feelingswhich agitated it, alas! he could see with a fatalperspicuity that there was no place there for him. Andso, gently, he bore his fate, knowing it, and content tobear it.

　　I suppose Amelia's father and mother saw through theintentions of the Major, and were not ill-disposed toencourage him; for Dobbin visited their house daily, andstayed for hours with them, or with Amelia, or with thehonest landlord, Mr. Clapp, and his family. He brought,on one pretext or another, presents to everybody, andalmost every day; and went, with the landlord's little girl,who was rather a favourite with Amelia, by the name ofMajor Sugarplums. It was this little child who commonlyacted as mistress of the ceremonies to introduce himto Mrs. Osborne. She laughed one day when Major Sugarplums'cab drove up to Fulham, and he descended fromit, bringing out a wooden horse, a drum, a trumpet, andother warlike toys, for little Georgy, who was scarcelysix months old, and for whom the articles in question wereentirely premature.

　　The child was asleep. "Hush," said Amelia, annoyed,perhaps, at the creaking of the Major's boots; and sheheld out her hand; smiling because William could nottake it until he had rid himself of his cargo of toys. "Godownstairs, little Mary," said he presently to the child,"I want to speak to Mrs. Osborne." She looked up ratherastonished, and laid down the infant on its bed.

　　"I am come to say good-bye, Amelia," said he, takingher slender little white hand gently.

　　"Good-bye? and where are you going?" she said, witha smile.

　　"Send the letters to the agents," he said; "they willforward them; for you will write to me, won't you? Ishall be away a long time."

　　"I'll write to you about Georgy," she said. "Dear' William,how good you have been to him and to me. Look athim. Isn't he like an angel?"

　　The little pink hands of the child closed mechanicallyround the honest soldier's finger, and Amelia looked upin his face with bright maternal pleasure. The cruellestlooks could not have wounded him more than that glanceof hopeless kindness. He bent over the child and mother.He could not speak for a moment. And it was only withall his strength that he could force himself to say a Godbless you. "God bless you," said Amelia, and held up herface and kissed him.

　　"Hush! Don't wake Georgy!" she added, as WilliamDobbin went to the door with heavy steps. She did nothear the noise of his cab-wheels as he drove away: shewas looking at the child, who was laughing in his sleep.