Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this
farewell
letter.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v25 - Tas to Tur
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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
knees, and I did - for a day. But the old chill came over me,
Henry, and the old fear of you and your melancholy; and I was
glad when you went away, and engaged with my Lord Ashburn-
ham that I might hear no more of you- that's the truth. You
are too good for me, somehow. I could not make you happy,
and should break my heart in trying and not being able to love
you. But if you had asked me when we gave you the sword,
you might have had me, sir; and we both should have been mis-
erable by this time. I talked with that silly lord all night just
to vex you and mamma; and I succeeded, didn't I? How frankly
we can talk of these things! It seems a thousand years ago; and
though we are here sitting in the same room, there is a great wall
between us. My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin! I can
like you now, and admire you too, sir, and say that you are
brave, and very kind, and very true, and a fine gentleman for all
- for all your little mishap at your birth," says she, wagging her
arch head. "And now, sir," says she with a courtesy, «< we must
have no more talk except when mamma is by, as his Grace is
with us; for he does not half like you, cousin, and is jealous as
the black man in your favorite play. "
Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr. Esmond
with the keenest pang, he did not show his sense of the wound
by any look of his (as Beatrix indeed afterward owned to him);
but said with a perfect command of himself, and an easy smile,
"The interview must not end yet, my dear, until I have had my
last word. Stay, here comes your mother! " (Indeed she came in
here with her sweet anxious face; and Esmond, going up, kissed
her hand respectfully. ) "My dear lady may hear too the last
words, which are no secrets, and are only a parting benediction
accompanying a present for your marriage from an old gentle-
man your guardian; for I feel as if I was the guardian of all
the family, and an old fellow that is fit to be the grandfather of
you all; and in this character let me make my lady duchess her
wedding present. They are the diamonds my father's widow
left me.
I had thought Beatrix might have had them a year.
ago; but they are good enough for a duchess, though not bright
enough for the handsomest woman in the world. " And he took
the case out of his pocket in which the jewels were, and pre-
sented them to his cousin.
She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very
handsome, and of great value; and the next minute the necklace.
## p. 14689 (#263) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14689
was where Belinda's cross is in Mr. Pope's admirable poem,
and glittering on the whitest and most perfectly shaped neck in
all England.
The girl's delight at receiving these trinkets was. so great
that, after rushing to the looking-glass and examining the effect
they produced upon that fair neck which they surrounded, Bea-
trix was running back with her arms extended, and was perhaps
for paying her cousin with a price that he would have liked no
doubt to receive from those beautiful rosy lips of hers; but at
this moment the door opened, and his Grace the bridegroom elect
was announced.
He looked very black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made
a very low bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in his
most ceremonious manner. He had come in his chair from the
palace hard by, and wore his two stars of the Garter and the
Thistle.
"Look, my lord duke," says Mistress Beatrix, advancing to
him and showing the diamonds on her breast.
"Diamonds," says his Grace. "Hm! they seem pretty. "
"They are a present on my marriage," says Beatrix.
"From her Majesty? " asks the duke. "The Queen is very
good. "
"From my Cousin Henry- from our Cousin Henry," cry both
the ladies in a breath.
"I have not the honor of knowing the gentleman. I thought
that my Lord Castlewood had no brother; and that on your
Ladyship's side there were no nephews. "
"From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord," says
Beatrix, taking the colonel's hand very bravely,
« who was left
guardian to us by our father, and who has a hundred times shown.
his love and friendship for our family. "
"The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from
her husband, madam," says the duke: "may I pray you to
restore these to Mr. Esmond? >>
"Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman and
benefactor, my Lord Duke," says Lady Castlewood with an air
of great dignity. "She is my daughter yet; and if her mother
sanctions the gift, no one else has the right to question it. "
"Kinsman and benefactor! " says the duke. "I know of no
kinsman; and I do not choose that my wife should have for bene-
factor a- »
XXV-919
## p. 14690 (#264) ##########################################
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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"My lord! " says Colonel Esmond.
"I am not here to bandy words," says his Grace: "frankly
I tell you that your visits to this house are too frequent, and that
I choose no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton from gentle-
men that bear a name they have no right to. "
"My lord! " breaks out Lady Castlewood, "Mr. Esmond hath
the best right to that name of any man in the world; and 'tis as
old and as honorable as your Grace's. "
My lord duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood was
mad, that was so talking to him.
"If I called him benefactor," said my mistress, "it is because
he has been so to us- yes, the noblest, the truest, the bravest,
the dearest of benefactors. He would have saved my husband's
life from Mohun's sword. He did save my boy's, and defended
him from that villain. Are these no benefits? "
"I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon," says his Grace, if possible
more haughty than before. "I would say not a word that should
give him offense, and thank him for his kindness to your Lady-
ship's family. My Lord Mohun and I are connected, you know,
by marriage-though neither by blood nor friendship; but I
must repeat what I said, that my wife can receive no presents
from Colonel Esmond. "
"My daughter may receive presents from the Head of our
House; my daughter may thankfully take kindness from her
father's, her mother's, her brother's dearest friend, and be grate-
ful for one more benefit besides the thousand we owe him," cries
Lady Esmond. "What is a string of diamond stones compared
to that affection he hath given us-our dearest preserver and
benefactor? We owe him not only Frank's life, but our all — yes,
our all," says my mistress, with a heightened color and a trem-
bling voice. "The title we bear is his, if he would claim it. "Tis
we who have no right to our name: not he that's too great for
it. He sacrificed his name at my dying lord's bedside — sacri-
ficed it to my orphan children; gave up rank and honor because
he loved us so nobly. His father was Viscount of Castlewood and
Marquis of Esmond before him; and he is his father's lawful
son and true heir, and we are the recipients of his bounty, and
he the chief of a house that's as old as your own. And if he
is content to forego his name that my child may bear it, we
love him and honor him and bless him under whatever name he
bears" and here the fond and affectionate creature would have
## p. 14691 (#265) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14691
knelt to Esmond again but that he prevented her; and Beatrix,
running up to her with a pale face and a cry of alarm, embraced
her and said, "Mother, what is this? "
"Tis a family secret, my lord duke," says Colonel Esmond:
"poor Beatrix knew nothing of it, nor did my lady till a year
ago. And I have as good a right to resign my title as your
Grace's mother to abdicate hers to you. "
"I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton,"
said my mistress, "had his Grace applied to me for my daugh-
ter's hand, and not to Beatrix. I should have spoken with you
this very day in private, my lord, had not your words brought
about this sudden explanation; and now 'tis fit Beatrix should
hear it, and know, as I would have all the world know, what we
owe to our kinsman and patron. "
And then in her touching way, and having hold of her
daughter's hand, and speaking to her rather than my lord.
duke, Lady Castlewood told the story which you know already
-lauding up to the skies her kinsman's behavior. On his side
Mr. Esmond explained the reasons, that seemed quite sufficiently
cogent with him, why the succession in the family, as at present
it stood, should not be disturbed; and he should remain as he
was, Colonel Esmond.
"And Marquis of Esmond, my lord," says his Grace, with a
low bow; "permit me to ask your Lordship's pardon for words
that were uttered in ignorance, and to beg for the favor of your
friendship. To be allied to you, sir, must be an honor under
whatever name you are known" (so his Grace was pleased to
say); "and in return for the splendid present you make my wife,
your kinswoman, I hope you will be pleased to command any
service that James Douglas can perform. I shall never be easy
until I repay you a part of my obligations at least; and ere very
long, and with the mission her Majesty hath given me," says the
duke, "that may perhaps be in my power. I shall esteem it as
a favor, my lord, if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride. ”
"And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is wel-
come," says Beatrix, stepping up to him; and as Esmond kissed
her, she whispered, "Oh, why didn't I know you before? "
My lord duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but said
never a word; Beatrix made him a proud curtsy, and the two
ladies quitted the room together.
## p. 14692 (#266) ##########################################
14692
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
BEFORE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO
From Vanity Fair'
THE
HERE never was, since the days of Darius, such a brilliant
train of camp-followers as hung round the train of the
Duke of Wellington's army in the Low Countries, in 1815;
and led it dancing and feasting, as it were, up to the very brink
of battle. A certain ball which a noble duchess gave at Brus-
sels on the 15th of June in the above-named year is historical.
All Brussels had been in a state of excitement about it; and I
have heard from ladies who were in that town at the period,
that the talk and interest of persons of their own sex regarding
the ball was much greater even than in respect of the enemy in
their front. The struggles, intrigues, and prayers to get tickets
were such as only English ladies will employ, in order to gain
admission to the society of the great of their own nation.
Jos and Mrs. O'Dowd, who were panting to be asked, strove
in vain to procure tickets; but others of our friends were more
lucky. For instance, through the interest of my Lord Bareacres,
and as a set-off for the dinner at the restaurateur's, George got
a card for Captain and Mrs. Osborne; which circumstance greatly
elated him. Dobbin, who was a friend of the general command-
ing the division in which their regiment was, came laughing
one day to Mrs. Osborne, and displayed a similar invitation; which
made Jos envious, and George wonder how the deuce he should
be getting into society. Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon, finally, were of
course invited, as became the friends of a general commanding
a cavalry brigade.
On the appointed night, George, having commanded new
dresses and ornaments of all sorts for Amelia, drove to the
famous ball, where his wife did not know a single soul. After
looking about for Lady Bareacres,-who cut him, thinking the
card was quite enough,- and after placing Amelia on a bench, he
left her to her own cogitations there; thinking on his own part
that he had behaved very handsomely in getting her new clothes,
and bringing her to the ball, where she was free to amuse her-
self as she liked. Her thoughts were not of the pleasantest, and
nobody except honest Dobbin came to disturb them.
Whilst her appearance was an utter failure (as her husband
felt with a sort of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's début was, on
## p. 14693 (#267) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14693
the contrary, very brilliant. She arrived very late. Her face
was radiant; her dress perfection. In the midst of the great
persons assembled, and the eye-glasses directed to her, Rebecca
seemed to be as cool and collected as when she used to marshal
Miss Pinkerton's little girls to church. Numbers of the men she
knew already, and the dandies thronged round her. As for the
ladies, it was whispered among them that Rawdon had run away
with her from out of a convent, and that she was a relation of
the Montmorency family. She spoke French so perfectly that
there might be some truth in this report, and it was agreed that
her manners were fine, and her air distingué. Fifty would-be
partners thronged round her at once, and pressed to have the
honor to dance with her. But she said she was engaged, and
only going to dance very little; and made her way at once to
the place where Emmy sate quite unnoticed, and dismally un-
happy. And so, to finish the poor child at once Mrs. Rawdon
ran and greeted affectionately her dearest Amelia, and began
forthwith to patronize her. She found fault with her friend's
dress, and her hair-dresser, and wondered how she could be so
chaussée, and vowed that she must send her corsetière the next
morning. She vowed that it was a delightful ball; that there
was everybody that every one knew, and only a very few nobodies
in the whole room. It is a fact that in a fortnight, and after
three dinners in general society, this young woman had got up
the genteel jargon so well that a native could not speak it bet-
ter; and it was only from her French being so good, that you
could know that she was not a born woman of fashion.
George, who had left Emmy on her bench on entering the
ball-room, very soon found his way back when Rebecca was
by her dear friend's side. Becky was just lecturing Mrs. Osborne
upon the follies which her husband was committing. 'For God's
sake, stop him from gambling, my dear," she said, "or he will
ruin himself. He and Rawdon are playing at cards every night;
and you know he is very poor, and Rawdon will win every
shilling from him if he does not take care. Why don't you pre-
vent him, you little careless creature? Why don't you come to
us of an evening, instead of moping at home with that Captain
Dobbin? I dare say he is très aimable; but how could one love a
man with feet of such size? Your husband's feet are darlings —
here he comes. Where have you been, wretch? Here is Emmy
crying her eyes out for you. Are you coming to fetch me for
## p. 14694 (#268) ##########################################
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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
the quadrille? " And she left her bouquet and shawl by Amelia's
side, and tripped off with George to dance. Women only know
how to wound so. There is a poison on the tips of their little
shafts which stings a thousand times more than a man's blunter
weapon. Our poor Emmy, who had never hated, never sneered
all her life, was powerless in the hands of her remorseless little
enemy.
George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice- how many times
Amelia scarcely knew. She sate quite unnoticed in her corner,
except when Rawdon came up with some words of clumsy con-
versation; and later in the evening, when Captain Dobbin made
so bold as to bring her refreshments and sit beside her. He
did not like to ask her why she was so sad; but as a pretext for
the tears which were filling in her eyes, she told him that Mrs.
Crawley had alarmed her by telling her that George would go
on playing.
"It is curious, when a man is bent upon play, by what clumsy
rogues he will allow himself to be cheated," Dobbin said; and
Emmy said, "Indeed. " She was thinking of something else. It
was not the loss of the money that grieved her.
At last George came back for Rebecca's shawl and flowers.
She was going away. She did not even condescend to come
back and say good-by to Amelia. The poor girl let her husband
come and go without saying a word, and her head fell on her
breast. Dobbin had been called away, and was whispering deep
in conversation with the general of the division, his friend, and
had not seen this last parting. George went away then with the
bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there lay a note,
coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's eye caught
it at once: she had been used to deal with notes in early life. She
put out her hand and took the nosegay. He saw by her eyes as
they met, that she was aware what she should find there. Her
husband hurried her away, still too intent upon his own thoughts,
seemingly, to take note of any marks of recognition which might
pass between his friend and his wife. These were, however, but
trifling. Rebecca gave George her hand with one of her usual
quick knowing glances, and made a curtsy and walked away.
George bowed over the hand; said nothing in reply to a remark
of Crawley's,-did not hear it even, his brain was so throbbing
with triumph and excitement; and allowed them to go away
without a word.
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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14695
His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet scene. It
was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca's request to
get her her scarf and flowers,—it was no more than he had
done twenty times before in the course of the last few days; but
now it was too much for her. "William," she said, suddenly
clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, "you've always been very
kind to me: I'm-I'm not well. Take me home. " She did not
know she called him by his Christian name, as George was accus-
tomed to do. He went away with her quickly. Her lodgings
were hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without,
where everything seemed to be more astir than even in the ball-
room within.
George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife
up on his return from the parties which he frequented, so she
went straight to bed now; but although she did not sleep, and
although the din and clatter and the galloping of horsemen was
incessant, she never heard any of these noises, having quite other
disturbances to keep her awake.
Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play
table and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Every-
thing succeeds with me to-night," he said. But his luck at play
even did not cure him of his restlessness; and he started up after
a while, pocketing his winnings, and went off to a buffet, where
he drank off many bumpers of wine.
Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laughing
loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been
to the card tables to look there for his friend. Dobbin looked as
pale and grave as his comrade was flushed and jovial.
"Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The duke's wine
is famous. Give me
some more, you sir;" and he held out a
trembling glass for the liquor.
"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely: "don't drink. "
"Drink there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up
your lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you. "
Dobbin went up and whispered something to him; at which
George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass,
clapped it on the table, and walked away speedily on his friend's
arm. "The enemy has passed the Sambre," William said, "and
our left is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in
three hours. "
## p. 14696 (#270) ##########################################
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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at
the news so long looked for, so sudden when it came. What
were love and intrigue now? He thought about a thousand
things but these in his rapid walk to his quarters: his past life
and future chances- the fate which might be before him- the
wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be about
to part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone! and that
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the
tender and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!
-
He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks
he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and
reckless he had been! Should any mischance befall him, what
was then left for her? How unworthy he was of her! Why had
he married her? He was not fit for marriage. Why had he
disobeyed his father, who had been always so generous to him?
Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish regret filled his
heart. He sate down and wrote to his father, remembering what
he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight a duel.
Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell letter.
He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how
he had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kind-
nesses which the stern old man had done him.
He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she
lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that
she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters from the ball, he
had found his regimental servant already making preparations for
his departure: the man had understood his signal to be still, and
these arrangements were very quickly and silently made. Should
he go in and wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her
brother to break the news of departure to her? He went in to
look at her once again
She had been awake when he first entered her room, but
had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should
not seem to reproach him. But when he had returned, so soon
after herself, too,- this timid little heart had felt more at ease;
and turning towards him as he stept softly out of the room, she
had fallen into a light sleep. George came in and looked at her
again, entering still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could
see her sweet, pale face: the purple eyelids were fringed and
## p. 14697 (#271) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14697
closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside the
coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender,
and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with
crime! Heart-stained and shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's
foot and looked at the sleeping girl. How dared he- who was
he, to pray for one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her!
He came to the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft
hand, lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly
towards the gentle pale face.
Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped
down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said, with a sob fit
to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She
was awake, poor soul-and to what? At that moment a bugle
from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken
up through the town; and 'midst the drums of the infantry, and
the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.
All our friends took their share and fought like men in the
great field.
All day long, whilst the women were praying ten
miles away, the lines of the dauntless English infantry were
receiving and repelling the furious charges of the French horse-
men. Guns which were heard at Brussels were plowing up their
ranks, and comrades falling, and the resolute survivors closing
in. Towards evening the attack of the French, repeated and
resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury. They had other foes
besides the British to engage, or were preparing for a final on-
set. It came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard marched
up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the
English from the height which they had maintained all day;
and spite of all, unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which
hurled death from the English line, the dark rolling column.
pressed on and up the hill. It seemed almost to crest the emi-
nence, when it began to wave and falter. Then it stopped, still
facing the shot. Then at last the English troops rushed from
the post from which no enemy had been able to dislodge them,
and the Guard turned and fled.
No more firing was heard at Brussels-the pursuit rolled
miles away.
Darkness came down on the field and city: and
Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face,
dead, with a bullet through his heart.
## p. 14698 (#272) ##########################################
14698
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
BECKY ADMIRES HER HUSBAND
From Vanity Fair'
RA
AWDON [just let out of the debtors' prison] walked home
rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night. He ran across the
streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length
came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back
and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The
drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said
that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the
light from the rooms on his pale face.
He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He
could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball
dress in which he had been captured the night before. He went
silently up the stairs, leaning against the banisters at the stair-
head. Nobody was stirring in the house besides: all the servants
had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within- laughter
and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the
night before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava! " It was
Lord Steyne's.
Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a
dinner was laid out, and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging
over the sofa on which Becky sate. The wretched woman was in
a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her fingers sparkling
with bracelets and rings; and the brilliants on her breast which
Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing
over it to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as
she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next instant
she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome her husband;
and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in
his looks.
He too attempted a laugh-and came forward holding out
his hand. "What, come back! How d' ye do, Crawley? " he said,
the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin at the
intruder.
There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling
herself before him. "I am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before
God, I am innocent. " She clung hold of his coat, of his hands;
her own were all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles.
"I am innocent. - Say I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne.
## p. 14699 (#273) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14699
He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furi-
ous with the wife as with the husband. "You innocent, damn
you! " he screamed out. "You innocent! Why, every trinket
you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you
thousands of pounds which this fellow has spent, and for which
he has sold you. Innocent, by ! You're as innocent as your
mother the ballet-girl, and your husband the bully. Don't think
to frighten me as you have done others. Make way, sir, and let
me pass;" and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and with flame in
his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched
upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other would
give way.
But Rawdon Crawley, springing out, seized him by the neck-
cloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and bent under his
arm. "You lie, you dog! " said Rawdon. "You lie, you coward
and villain! " And he struck the peer twice over the face with
his open hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was
all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trem-
bling before him. She admired her husband, strong, brave, and
victorious.
"Come here," he said. She came up at once.
"Take off those things. " She began, trembling, pulling the
jewels from her arms and the rings from her shaking fingers,
and held them all in a heap, quivering and looking up at him.
"Throw them down," he said, and she dropped them. He tore
the diamond ornament out of her breast, and flung it at Lord
Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar
to his dying day.
"Come up-stairs," Rawdon said to his wife. "Don't kill
me, Rawdon," she said. — He laughed savagely. "I want to see
if that man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he
given you any? "
"No," said Rebecca; "that is->
"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they went out
together.
Rebecca gave him all the keys but one; and she was in hopes
that he would not have remarked the absence of that. It be-
longed to the little desk which Amelia had given her in early
days, and which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung
open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery
of their contents here and there, and at last he found the desk.
## p. 14700 (#274) ##########################################
14700
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The woman was forced to open it. It contained papers, love-
letters many years old-all sorts of small trinkets and woman's
memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with bank-notes.
Some of these were dated ten years back, too; and one was quite
a fresh one,—a note for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne
had given her.
"Did he give you this? " Rawdon said.
"Yes," Rebecca answered.
"I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said (for day had dawned
again, and many hours had passed in this search); "and I will
pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some of the debts.
You will let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You
might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this:
I have always shared with you. "
And he left her without an-
"I am innocent," said Becky.
other word.
What were her thoughts when he left her? She remained
for hours after he was gone, the sunshine pouring into the
room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the bed's edge. The drawers
were all opened and their contents scattered about,- dresses and
feathers, scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying
in a wreck. Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown
was torn where Rawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of it.
She heard him go down-stairs a few minutes after he left her,
and the door slamming and closing on him. She knew he would
never come back. He was gone forever. Would he kill himself?
she thought; - not until after he had met Lord Steyne. She
thought of her long past life, and all the dismal incidents of it.
Ah, how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely, and profitless!
Should she take laudanum and end it, too-have done with all
hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French maid found.
her in this position,- sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins.
with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman was her accom-
plice and in Steyne's pay. "Mon Dieu, madame, what has hap-
pened? " she asked.
What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She said not;
but who could tell what was truth which came from those lips;
or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure? All her lies and
her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and
genius had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the cur-
tains, and with some entreaty and show of kindness, persuaded
## p. 14701 (#275) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14701
her mistress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below and
gathered up the trinkets which had been lying on the floor since
Rebecca dropped them there at her husband's orders, and Lord
Steyne went away.
COLONEL NEWCOME IN THE CAVE OF HARMONY
From The Newcomes >
THE
HERE was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter
than it appears to do in this latter half of the nineteenth
century; when the zest of life was certainly keener; when
tavern wines seemed to be delicious, and tavern dinners the per-
fection of cookery; when the perusal of novels was productive of
immense delight, and the monthly advent of magazine-day was
hailed as an exciting holiday; when to know Thompson, who had
written a magazine article, was an honor and a privilege, and to
see Brown, the author of the last romance, in the flesh, and act-
ually walking in the Park with his umbrella and Mrs. Brown, was
an event remarkable, and to the end of life to be perfectly well
remembered; when the women of this world were a thousand
times more beautiful than those of the present time, and the
houris of the theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, that to
see them was to set the heart in motion, and to see them again
was to struggle for half an hour previously at the door of the
pit; when tailors called at a man's lodgings to dazzle him with
cards of fancy waistcoats; when it seemed necessary to purchase
a grand silver dressing-case, so as to be ready for the beard
which was not yet born (as yearling brides provide lace caps, and
work rich clothes, for the expected darling); when to ride in the
Park on a ten-shilling hack seemed to be the height of fashion-
able enjoyment, and to splash your college tutor as you were
driving down Regent Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire;
when the acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of Trinity
at the Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with
King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin
of Trinity Hall (who was with his family in Bloomsbury Square)
to dine at the Piazza, go to the play and see Braham in 'Fra
Diavolo,' and end the frolic evening by partaking of supper and
a song at the Cave of Harmony. It was in the days of my own
## p. 14702 (#276) ##########################################
14702
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
youth then that I met one or two of the characters who are to
figure in this history; and whom I must ask leave to accompany
for a short while, and until, familiarized with the public, they
can make their own way. As I recall them the roses bloom
again, and the nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer.
Going to the play then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in
those merry days, with some young fellows of my own age;
having listened delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of
operas, and laughed enthusiastically at the farce, we became nat-
urally hungry at twelve o'clock at night, and a desire for Welsh
rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the Cave of Harmony,
then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, among whose friends we
were proud to count.
We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never
failed to greet us with a kind nod; and John, the waiter, made
room for us near the president of the convivial meeting. We
knew the three admirable glee-singers, and many a time they
partook of brandy-and-water at our expense. One of us gave his
call dinner at Hoskins's, and a merry time we had of it. Where
are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night! Do you warble your
songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black
Avernus?
The goes of stout, The Chough and Crow,' the Welsh rabbit,
the 'Red-Cross Knight,' the hot brandy-and-water, (the brown,
the strong! ) the Bloom is on the Rye,' (the bloom isn't on the
rye any more! )-the song and the cup, in a word, passed round
merrily, and I daresay the songs and bumpers were encored. It
happened that there was a very small attendance at the Cave that
night, and we were all more sociable and friendly because the
company was select. The songs were chiefly of the sentimental
class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I
speak.
There came into the Cave a gentleman with a lean brown face
and long black mustaches, dressed in very loose clothes, and evi-
dently a stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for
a long time. He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in
his company; and calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the
music, and twirled his mustaches with great enthusiasm.
At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the
table, bounded across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and
blushing, said, "Don't you know me? "
## p. 14703 (#277) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14703
It was little Newcome, my schoolfellow, whom I had not seen
for six years; grown a fine, tall young stripling now, with the
same bright blue eyes which I remembered when he was quite a
little boy.
"What the deuce brings you here? " said I.
He laughed, and looked roguish. "My father- that's my
father would come. He's just come back from India. He says
all the wits used to come here,- Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris,
Colonel Hanger, Professor Porson. I told him your name, and
that you used to be very kind to me when I first went to Smith-
field. I've left now; I'm to have a private tutor. I say, I've
got such a jolly pony! It's better fun than old Smiffle. "
Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, pointing to
a waiter to follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode
across the room, twirling his mustaches, and came up to the
table where we sat, making a salutation with his hat in a very
stately and polite manner, so that Hoskins himself was, as it
were, obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured among them-
selves (their eyes rolling over their glasses toward one another as
they sucked brandy-and-water); and that mischievous little wag,
little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just come in), began to
mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers after the manner of
the stranger, and flapping about his pocket handkerchief in the
most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by sternly
looking toward Nadab; and at the same time called upon the
gents to give their orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr.
Bellew about to sing a song.
Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me. I
daresay I blushed; for I had been comparing him to the admi-
rable Harley in 'The Critic,' and had christened him Don Ferolo
Whiskerandos.
―
He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant; and with
a cordiality so simple and sincere that my laughter shrank away
ashamed, and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and
friendly. In youth, you see, one is touched by kindness. A man
of the world may of course be grateful or not, as he chooses.
"I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, "to my boy.
And whoever is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me
to sit down by you? and may I beg you to try my cheroots? "
We were friends in a minute-young Newcome snuggling by my
side, his father opposite,- to whom, after a minute or two of
conversation, I presented my three college friends.
## p. 14704 (#278) ##########################################
14704
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says the
colonel. "Are there any celebrated persons in the room? I have
been five-and-thirty years from home, and want to see all that is
to be seen. "
King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was on the
point of pulling some dreadful long-bow, and pointing out a half-
dozen of people in the room as R and H and L———,
etc. , the most celebrated wits of that day; but I cut King's shins
under the table, and got the fellow to hold his tongue.
"Maxima debetur pueris," says Jones (a fellow of very kind
feeling, who has gone into the Church since); and writing on
his card to Hoskins, hinted to him that a boy was in the room,
and a gentleman who was quite a greenhorn, hence that the songs
had better be carefully selected.
And so they were. A lady's school might have come in, and
but for the smell of the cigars and brandy-and-water have taken
no harm by what happened. Why should it not always be so?
If there are any Caves of Harmony now, I warrant Messieurs
the landlords their interests would be better consulted by keeping
their singers within bounds. The very greatest scamps like pretty
songs, and are melted by them; so are honest people. It was
worth a guinea to see the simple colonel, and his delight at the
music.
14688
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
knees, and I did - for a day. But the old chill came over me,
Henry, and the old fear of you and your melancholy; and I was
glad when you went away, and engaged with my Lord Ashburn-
ham that I might hear no more of you- that's the truth. You
are too good for me, somehow. I could not make you happy,
and should break my heart in trying and not being able to love
you. But if you had asked me when we gave you the sword,
you might have had me, sir; and we both should have been mis-
erable by this time. I talked with that silly lord all night just
to vex you and mamma; and I succeeded, didn't I? How frankly
we can talk of these things! It seems a thousand years ago; and
though we are here sitting in the same room, there is a great wall
between us. My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin! I can
like you now, and admire you too, sir, and say that you are
brave, and very kind, and very true, and a fine gentleman for all
- for all your little mishap at your birth," says she, wagging her
arch head. "And now, sir," says she with a courtesy, «< we must
have no more talk except when mamma is by, as his Grace is
with us; for he does not half like you, cousin, and is jealous as
the black man in your favorite play. "
Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr. Esmond
with the keenest pang, he did not show his sense of the wound
by any look of his (as Beatrix indeed afterward owned to him);
but said with a perfect command of himself, and an easy smile,
"The interview must not end yet, my dear, until I have had my
last word. Stay, here comes your mother! " (Indeed she came in
here with her sweet anxious face; and Esmond, going up, kissed
her hand respectfully. ) "My dear lady may hear too the last
words, which are no secrets, and are only a parting benediction
accompanying a present for your marriage from an old gentle-
man your guardian; for I feel as if I was the guardian of all
the family, and an old fellow that is fit to be the grandfather of
you all; and in this character let me make my lady duchess her
wedding present. They are the diamonds my father's widow
left me.
I had thought Beatrix might have had them a year.
ago; but they are good enough for a duchess, though not bright
enough for the handsomest woman in the world. " And he took
the case out of his pocket in which the jewels were, and pre-
sented them to his cousin.
She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very
handsome, and of great value; and the next minute the necklace.
## p. 14689 (#263) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14689
was where Belinda's cross is in Mr. Pope's admirable poem,
and glittering on the whitest and most perfectly shaped neck in
all England.
The girl's delight at receiving these trinkets was. so great
that, after rushing to the looking-glass and examining the effect
they produced upon that fair neck which they surrounded, Bea-
trix was running back with her arms extended, and was perhaps
for paying her cousin with a price that he would have liked no
doubt to receive from those beautiful rosy lips of hers; but at
this moment the door opened, and his Grace the bridegroom elect
was announced.
He looked very black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made
a very low bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in his
most ceremonious manner. He had come in his chair from the
palace hard by, and wore his two stars of the Garter and the
Thistle.
"Look, my lord duke," says Mistress Beatrix, advancing to
him and showing the diamonds on her breast.
"Diamonds," says his Grace. "Hm! they seem pretty. "
"They are a present on my marriage," says Beatrix.
"From her Majesty? " asks the duke. "The Queen is very
good. "
"From my Cousin Henry- from our Cousin Henry," cry both
the ladies in a breath.
"I have not the honor of knowing the gentleman. I thought
that my Lord Castlewood had no brother; and that on your
Ladyship's side there were no nephews. "
"From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord," says
Beatrix, taking the colonel's hand very bravely,
« who was left
guardian to us by our father, and who has a hundred times shown.
his love and friendship for our family. "
"The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from
her husband, madam," says the duke: "may I pray you to
restore these to Mr. Esmond? >>
"Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman and
benefactor, my Lord Duke," says Lady Castlewood with an air
of great dignity. "She is my daughter yet; and if her mother
sanctions the gift, no one else has the right to question it. "
"Kinsman and benefactor! " says the duke. "I know of no
kinsman; and I do not choose that my wife should have for bene-
factor a- »
XXV-919
## p. 14690 (#264) ##########################################
14690
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"My lord! " says Colonel Esmond.
"I am not here to bandy words," says his Grace: "frankly
I tell you that your visits to this house are too frequent, and that
I choose no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton from gentle-
men that bear a name they have no right to. "
"My lord! " breaks out Lady Castlewood, "Mr. Esmond hath
the best right to that name of any man in the world; and 'tis as
old and as honorable as your Grace's. "
My lord duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood was
mad, that was so talking to him.
"If I called him benefactor," said my mistress, "it is because
he has been so to us- yes, the noblest, the truest, the bravest,
the dearest of benefactors. He would have saved my husband's
life from Mohun's sword. He did save my boy's, and defended
him from that villain. Are these no benefits? "
"I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon," says his Grace, if possible
more haughty than before. "I would say not a word that should
give him offense, and thank him for his kindness to your Lady-
ship's family. My Lord Mohun and I are connected, you know,
by marriage-though neither by blood nor friendship; but I
must repeat what I said, that my wife can receive no presents
from Colonel Esmond. "
"My daughter may receive presents from the Head of our
House; my daughter may thankfully take kindness from her
father's, her mother's, her brother's dearest friend, and be grate-
ful for one more benefit besides the thousand we owe him," cries
Lady Esmond. "What is a string of diamond stones compared
to that affection he hath given us-our dearest preserver and
benefactor? We owe him not only Frank's life, but our all — yes,
our all," says my mistress, with a heightened color and a trem-
bling voice. "The title we bear is his, if he would claim it. "Tis
we who have no right to our name: not he that's too great for
it. He sacrificed his name at my dying lord's bedside — sacri-
ficed it to my orphan children; gave up rank and honor because
he loved us so nobly. His father was Viscount of Castlewood and
Marquis of Esmond before him; and he is his father's lawful
son and true heir, and we are the recipients of his bounty, and
he the chief of a house that's as old as your own. And if he
is content to forego his name that my child may bear it, we
love him and honor him and bless him under whatever name he
bears" and here the fond and affectionate creature would have
## p. 14691 (#265) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14691
knelt to Esmond again but that he prevented her; and Beatrix,
running up to her with a pale face and a cry of alarm, embraced
her and said, "Mother, what is this? "
"Tis a family secret, my lord duke," says Colonel Esmond:
"poor Beatrix knew nothing of it, nor did my lady till a year
ago. And I have as good a right to resign my title as your
Grace's mother to abdicate hers to you. "
"I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton,"
said my mistress, "had his Grace applied to me for my daugh-
ter's hand, and not to Beatrix. I should have spoken with you
this very day in private, my lord, had not your words brought
about this sudden explanation; and now 'tis fit Beatrix should
hear it, and know, as I would have all the world know, what we
owe to our kinsman and patron. "
And then in her touching way, and having hold of her
daughter's hand, and speaking to her rather than my lord.
duke, Lady Castlewood told the story which you know already
-lauding up to the skies her kinsman's behavior. On his side
Mr. Esmond explained the reasons, that seemed quite sufficiently
cogent with him, why the succession in the family, as at present
it stood, should not be disturbed; and he should remain as he
was, Colonel Esmond.
"And Marquis of Esmond, my lord," says his Grace, with a
low bow; "permit me to ask your Lordship's pardon for words
that were uttered in ignorance, and to beg for the favor of your
friendship. To be allied to you, sir, must be an honor under
whatever name you are known" (so his Grace was pleased to
say); "and in return for the splendid present you make my wife,
your kinswoman, I hope you will be pleased to command any
service that James Douglas can perform. I shall never be easy
until I repay you a part of my obligations at least; and ere very
long, and with the mission her Majesty hath given me," says the
duke, "that may perhaps be in my power. I shall esteem it as
a favor, my lord, if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride. ”
"And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is wel-
come," says Beatrix, stepping up to him; and as Esmond kissed
her, she whispered, "Oh, why didn't I know you before? "
My lord duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but said
never a word; Beatrix made him a proud curtsy, and the two
ladies quitted the room together.
## p. 14692 (#266) ##########################################
14692
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
BEFORE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO
From Vanity Fair'
THE
HERE never was, since the days of Darius, such a brilliant
train of camp-followers as hung round the train of the
Duke of Wellington's army in the Low Countries, in 1815;
and led it dancing and feasting, as it were, up to the very brink
of battle. A certain ball which a noble duchess gave at Brus-
sels on the 15th of June in the above-named year is historical.
All Brussels had been in a state of excitement about it; and I
have heard from ladies who were in that town at the period,
that the talk and interest of persons of their own sex regarding
the ball was much greater even than in respect of the enemy in
their front. The struggles, intrigues, and prayers to get tickets
were such as only English ladies will employ, in order to gain
admission to the society of the great of their own nation.
Jos and Mrs. O'Dowd, who were panting to be asked, strove
in vain to procure tickets; but others of our friends were more
lucky. For instance, through the interest of my Lord Bareacres,
and as a set-off for the dinner at the restaurateur's, George got
a card for Captain and Mrs. Osborne; which circumstance greatly
elated him. Dobbin, who was a friend of the general command-
ing the division in which their regiment was, came laughing
one day to Mrs. Osborne, and displayed a similar invitation; which
made Jos envious, and George wonder how the deuce he should
be getting into society. Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon, finally, were of
course invited, as became the friends of a general commanding
a cavalry brigade.
On the appointed night, George, having commanded new
dresses and ornaments of all sorts for Amelia, drove to the
famous ball, where his wife did not know a single soul. After
looking about for Lady Bareacres,-who cut him, thinking the
card was quite enough,- and after placing Amelia on a bench, he
left her to her own cogitations there; thinking on his own part
that he had behaved very handsomely in getting her new clothes,
and bringing her to the ball, where she was free to amuse her-
self as she liked. Her thoughts were not of the pleasantest, and
nobody except honest Dobbin came to disturb them.
Whilst her appearance was an utter failure (as her husband
felt with a sort of rage), Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's début was, on
## p. 14693 (#267) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14693
the contrary, very brilliant. She arrived very late. Her face
was radiant; her dress perfection. In the midst of the great
persons assembled, and the eye-glasses directed to her, Rebecca
seemed to be as cool and collected as when she used to marshal
Miss Pinkerton's little girls to church. Numbers of the men she
knew already, and the dandies thronged round her. As for the
ladies, it was whispered among them that Rawdon had run away
with her from out of a convent, and that she was a relation of
the Montmorency family. She spoke French so perfectly that
there might be some truth in this report, and it was agreed that
her manners were fine, and her air distingué. Fifty would-be
partners thronged round her at once, and pressed to have the
honor to dance with her. But she said she was engaged, and
only going to dance very little; and made her way at once to
the place where Emmy sate quite unnoticed, and dismally un-
happy. And so, to finish the poor child at once Mrs. Rawdon
ran and greeted affectionately her dearest Amelia, and began
forthwith to patronize her. She found fault with her friend's
dress, and her hair-dresser, and wondered how she could be so
chaussée, and vowed that she must send her corsetière the next
morning. She vowed that it was a delightful ball; that there
was everybody that every one knew, and only a very few nobodies
in the whole room. It is a fact that in a fortnight, and after
three dinners in general society, this young woman had got up
the genteel jargon so well that a native could not speak it bet-
ter; and it was only from her French being so good, that you
could know that she was not a born woman of fashion.
George, who had left Emmy on her bench on entering the
ball-room, very soon found his way back when Rebecca was
by her dear friend's side. Becky was just lecturing Mrs. Osborne
upon the follies which her husband was committing. 'For God's
sake, stop him from gambling, my dear," she said, "or he will
ruin himself. He and Rawdon are playing at cards every night;
and you know he is very poor, and Rawdon will win every
shilling from him if he does not take care. Why don't you pre-
vent him, you little careless creature? Why don't you come to
us of an evening, instead of moping at home with that Captain
Dobbin? I dare say he is très aimable; but how could one love a
man with feet of such size? Your husband's feet are darlings —
here he comes. Where have you been, wretch? Here is Emmy
crying her eyes out for you. Are you coming to fetch me for
## p. 14694 (#268) ##########################################
14694
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
the quadrille? " And she left her bouquet and shawl by Amelia's
side, and tripped off with George to dance. Women only know
how to wound so. There is a poison on the tips of their little
shafts which stings a thousand times more than a man's blunter
weapon. Our poor Emmy, who had never hated, never sneered
all her life, was powerless in the hands of her remorseless little
enemy.
George danced with Rebecca twice or thrice- how many times
Amelia scarcely knew. She sate quite unnoticed in her corner,
except when Rawdon came up with some words of clumsy con-
versation; and later in the evening, when Captain Dobbin made
so bold as to bring her refreshments and sit beside her. He
did not like to ask her why she was so sad; but as a pretext for
the tears which were filling in her eyes, she told him that Mrs.
Crawley had alarmed her by telling her that George would go
on playing.
"It is curious, when a man is bent upon play, by what clumsy
rogues he will allow himself to be cheated," Dobbin said; and
Emmy said, "Indeed. " She was thinking of something else. It
was not the loss of the money that grieved her.
At last George came back for Rebecca's shawl and flowers.
She was going away. She did not even condescend to come
back and say good-by to Amelia. The poor girl let her husband
come and go without saying a word, and her head fell on her
breast. Dobbin had been called away, and was whispering deep
in conversation with the general of the division, his friend, and
had not seen this last parting. George went away then with the
bouquet; but when he gave it to the owner, there lay a note,
coiled like a snake among the flowers. Rebecca's eye caught
it at once: she had been used to deal with notes in early life. She
put out her hand and took the nosegay. He saw by her eyes as
they met, that she was aware what she should find there. Her
husband hurried her away, still too intent upon his own thoughts,
seemingly, to take note of any marks of recognition which might
pass between his friend and his wife. These were, however, but
trifling. Rebecca gave George her hand with one of her usual
quick knowing glances, and made a curtsy and walked away.
George bowed over the hand; said nothing in reply to a remark
of Crawley's,-did not hear it even, his brain was so throbbing
with triumph and excitement; and allowed them to go away
without a word.
## p. 14695 (#269) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14695
His wife saw the one part at least of the bouquet scene. It
was quite natural that George should come at Rebecca's request to
get her her scarf and flowers,—it was no more than he had
done twenty times before in the course of the last few days; but
now it was too much for her. "William," she said, suddenly
clinging to Dobbin, who was near her, "you've always been very
kind to me: I'm-I'm not well. Take me home. " She did not
know she called him by his Christian name, as George was accus-
tomed to do. He went away with her quickly. Her lodgings
were hard by; and they threaded through the crowd without,
where everything seemed to be more astir than even in the ball-
room within.
George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife
up on his return from the parties which he frequented, so she
went straight to bed now; but although she did not sleep, and
although the din and clatter and the galloping of horsemen was
incessant, she never heard any of these noises, having quite other
disturbances to keep her awake.
Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play
table and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Every-
thing succeeds with me to-night," he said. But his luck at play
even did not cure him of his restlessness; and he started up after
a while, pocketing his winnings, and went off to a buffet, where
he drank off many bumpers of wine.
Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laughing
loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been
to the card tables to look there for his friend. Dobbin looked as
pale and grave as his comrade was flushed and jovial.
"Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The duke's wine
is famous. Give me
some more, you sir;" and he held out a
trembling glass for the liquor.
"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely: "don't drink. "
"Drink there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up
your lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you. "
Dobbin went up and whispered something to him; at which
George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass,
clapped it on the table, and walked away speedily on his friend's
arm. "The enemy has passed the Sambre," William said, "and
our left is already engaged. Come away. We are to march in
three hours. "
## p. 14696 (#270) ##########################################
14696
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at
the news so long looked for, so sudden when it came. What
were love and intrigue now? He thought about a thousand
things but these in his rapid walk to his quarters: his past life
and future chances- the fate which might be before him- the
wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be about
to part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone! and that
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the
tender and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!
-
He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks
he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and
reckless he had been! Should any mischance befall him, what
was then left for her? How unworthy he was of her! Why had
he married her? He was not fit for marriage. Why had he
disobeyed his father, who had been always so generous to him?
Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish regret filled his
heart. He sate down and wrote to his father, remembering what
he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight a duel.
Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell letter.
He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how
he had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kind-
nesses which the stern old man had done him.
He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she
lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that
she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters from the ball, he
had found his regimental servant already making preparations for
his departure: the man had understood his signal to be still, and
these arrangements were very quickly and silently made. Should
he go in and wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her
brother to break the news of departure to her? He went in to
look at her once again
She had been awake when he first entered her room, but
had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should
not seem to reproach him. But when he had returned, so soon
after herself, too,- this timid little heart had felt more at ease;
and turning towards him as he stept softly out of the room, she
had fallen into a light sleep. George came in and looked at her
again, entering still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could
see her sweet, pale face: the purple eyelids were fringed and
## p. 14697 (#271) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14697
closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside the
coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how gentle, how tender,
and how friendless! and he, how selfish, brutal, and black with
crime! Heart-stained and shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's
foot and looked at the sleeping girl. How dared he- who was
he, to pray for one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her!
He came to the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft
hand, lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly
towards the gentle pale face.
Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he stooped
down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said, with a sob fit
to break the little heart that nestled so closely by his own. She
was awake, poor soul-and to what? At that moment a bugle
from the Place of Arms began sounding clearly, and was taken
up through the town; and 'midst the drums of the infantry, and
the shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.
All our friends took their share and fought like men in the
great field.
All day long, whilst the women were praying ten
miles away, the lines of the dauntless English infantry were
receiving and repelling the furious charges of the French horse-
men. Guns which were heard at Brussels were plowing up their
ranks, and comrades falling, and the resolute survivors closing
in. Towards evening the attack of the French, repeated and
resisted so bravely, slackened in its fury. They had other foes
besides the British to engage, or were preparing for a final on-
set. It came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard marched
up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep the
English from the height which they had maintained all day;
and spite of all, unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which
hurled death from the English line, the dark rolling column.
pressed on and up the hill. It seemed almost to crest the emi-
nence, when it began to wave and falter. Then it stopped, still
facing the shot. Then at last the English troops rushed from
the post from which no enemy had been able to dislodge them,
and the Guard turned and fled.
No more firing was heard at Brussels-the pursuit rolled
miles away.
Darkness came down on the field and city: and
Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face,
dead, with a bullet through his heart.
## p. 14698 (#272) ##########################################
14698
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
BECKY ADMIRES HER HUSBAND
From Vanity Fair'
RA
AWDON [just let out of the debtors' prison] walked home
rapidly. It was nine o'clock at night. He ran across the
streets and the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length
came up breathless opposite his own house. He started back
and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The
drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said
that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the
light from the rooms on his pale face.
He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He
could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball
dress in which he had been captured the night before. He went
silently up the stairs, leaning against the banisters at the stair-
head. Nobody was stirring in the house besides: all the servants
had been sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within- laughter
and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song of the
night before; a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! Brava! " It was
Lord Steyne's.
Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a
dinner was laid out, and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging
over the sofa on which Becky sate. The wretched woman was in
a brilliant full toilette, her arms and all her fingers sparkling
with bracelets and rings; and the brilliants on her breast which
Steyne had given her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing
over it to kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as
she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next instant
she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome her husband;
and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, pale, and with fury in
his looks.
He too attempted a laugh-and came forward holding out
his hand. "What, come back! How d' ye do, Crawley? " he said,
the nerves of his mouth twitching as he tried to grin at the
intruder.
There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling
herself before him. "I am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before
God, I am innocent. " She clung hold of his coat, of his hands;
her own were all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles.
"I am innocent. - Say I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne.
## p. 14699 (#273) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14699
He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furi-
ous with the wife as with the husband. "You innocent, damn
you! " he screamed out. "You innocent! Why, every trinket
you have on your body is paid for by me. I have given you
thousands of pounds which this fellow has spent, and for which
he has sold you. Innocent, by ! You're as innocent as your
mother the ballet-girl, and your husband the bully. Don't think
to frighten me as you have done others. Make way, sir, and let
me pass;" and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, and with flame in
his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the face, marched
upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other would
give way.
But Rawdon Crawley, springing out, seized him by the neck-
cloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and bent under his
arm. "You lie, you dog! " said Rawdon. "You lie, you coward
and villain! " And he struck the peer twice over the face with
his open hand, and flung him bleeding to the ground. It was
all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trem-
bling before him. She admired her husband, strong, brave, and
victorious.
"Come here," he said. She came up at once.
"Take off those things. " She began, trembling, pulling the
jewels from her arms and the rings from her shaking fingers,
and held them all in a heap, quivering and looking up at him.
"Throw them down," he said, and she dropped them. He tore
the diamond ornament out of her breast, and flung it at Lord
Steyne. It cut him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar
to his dying day.
"Come up-stairs," Rawdon said to his wife. "Don't kill
me, Rawdon," she said. — He laughed savagely. "I want to see
if that man lies about the money as he has about me. Has he
given you any? "
"No," said Rebecca; "that is->
"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they went out
together.
Rebecca gave him all the keys but one; and she was in hopes
that he would not have remarked the absence of that. It be-
longed to the little desk which Amelia had given her in early
days, and which she kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung
open boxes and wardrobes, throwing the multifarious trumpery
of their contents here and there, and at last he found the desk.
## p. 14700 (#274) ##########################################
14700
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The woman was forced to open it. It contained papers, love-
letters many years old-all sorts of small trinkets and woman's
memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with bank-notes.
Some of these were dated ten years back, too; and one was quite
a fresh one,—a note for a thousand pounds which Lord Steyne
had given her.
"Did he give you this? " Rawdon said.
"Yes," Rebecca answered.
"I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said (for day had dawned
again, and many hours had passed in this search); "and I will
pay Briggs, who was kind to the boy, and some of the debts.
You will let me know where I shall send the rest to you. You
might have spared me a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this:
I have always shared with you. "
And he left her without an-
"I am innocent," said Becky.
other word.
What were her thoughts when he left her? She remained
for hours after he was gone, the sunshine pouring into the
room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the bed's edge. The drawers
were all opened and their contents scattered about,- dresses and
feathers, scarfs and trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying
in a wreck. Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown
was torn where Rawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of it.
She heard him go down-stairs a few minutes after he left her,
and the door slamming and closing on him. She knew he would
never come back. He was gone forever. Would he kill himself?
she thought; - not until after he had met Lord Steyne. She
thought of her long past life, and all the dismal incidents of it.
Ah, how dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely, and profitless!
Should she take laudanum and end it, too-have done with all
hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs? The French maid found.
her in this position,- sitting in the midst of her miserable ruins.
with clasped hands and dry eyes. The woman was her accom-
plice and in Steyne's pay. "Mon Dieu, madame, what has hap-
pened? " she asked.
What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She said not;
but who could tell what was truth which came from those lips;
or if that corrupt heart was in this case pure? All her lies and
her schemes, all her selfishness and her wiles, all her wit and
genius had come to this bankruptcy. The woman closed the cur-
tains, and with some entreaty and show of kindness, persuaded
## p. 14701 (#275) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14701
her mistress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below and
gathered up the trinkets which had been lying on the floor since
Rebecca dropped them there at her husband's orders, and Lord
Steyne went away.
COLONEL NEWCOME IN THE CAVE OF HARMONY
From The Newcomes >
THE
HERE was once a time when the sun used to shine brighter
than it appears to do in this latter half of the nineteenth
century; when the zest of life was certainly keener; when
tavern wines seemed to be delicious, and tavern dinners the per-
fection of cookery; when the perusal of novels was productive of
immense delight, and the monthly advent of magazine-day was
hailed as an exciting holiday; when to know Thompson, who had
written a magazine article, was an honor and a privilege, and to
see Brown, the author of the last romance, in the flesh, and act-
ually walking in the Park with his umbrella and Mrs. Brown, was
an event remarkable, and to the end of life to be perfectly well
remembered; when the women of this world were a thousand
times more beautiful than those of the present time, and the
houris of the theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, that to
see them was to set the heart in motion, and to see them again
was to struggle for half an hour previously at the door of the
pit; when tailors called at a man's lodgings to dazzle him with
cards of fancy waistcoats; when it seemed necessary to purchase
a grand silver dressing-case, so as to be ready for the beard
which was not yet born (as yearling brides provide lace caps, and
work rich clothes, for the expected darling); when to ride in the
Park on a ten-shilling hack seemed to be the height of fashion-
able enjoyment, and to splash your college tutor as you were
driving down Regent Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire;
when the acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of Trinity
at the Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, and with
King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colonnade), and Martin
of Trinity Hall (who was with his family in Bloomsbury Square)
to dine at the Piazza, go to the play and see Braham in 'Fra
Diavolo,' and end the frolic evening by partaking of supper and
a song at the Cave of Harmony. It was in the days of my own
## p. 14702 (#276) ##########################################
14702
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
youth then that I met one or two of the characters who are to
figure in this history; and whom I must ask leave to accompany
for a short while, and until, familiarized with the public, they
can make their own way. As I recall them the roses bloom
again, and the nightingales sing by the calm Bendemeer.
Going to the play then, and to the pit, as was the fashion in
those merry days, with some young fellows of my own age;
having listened delighted to the most cheerful and brilliant of
operas, and laughed enthusiastically at the farce, we became nat-
urally hungry at twelve o'clock at night, and a desire for Welsh
rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the Cave of Harmony,
then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, among whose friends we
were proud to count.
We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he never
failed to greet us with a kind nod; and John, the waiter, made
room for us near the president of the convivial meeting. We
knew the three admirable glee-singers, and many a time they
partook of brandy-and-water at our expense. One of us gave his
call dinner at Hoskins's, and a merry time we had of it. Where
are you, O Hoskins, bird of the night! Do you warble your
songs by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks of black
Avernus?
The goes of stout, The Chough and Crow,' the Welsh rabbit,
the 'Red-Cross Knight,' the hot brandy-and-water, (the brown,
the strong! ) the Bloom is on the Rye,' (the bloom isn't on the
rye any more! )-the song and the cup, in a word, passed round
merrily, and I daresay the songs and bumpers were encored. It
happened that there was a very small attendance at the Cave that
night, and we were all more sociable and friendly because the
company was select. The songs were chiefly of the sentimental
class; such ditties were much in vogue at the time of which I
speak.
There came into the Cave a gentleman with a lean brown face
and long black mustaches, dressed in very loose clothes, and evi-
dently a stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for
a long time. He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in
his company; and calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the
music, and twirled his mustaches with great enthusiasm.
At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from the
table, bounded across the room, ran to me with his hands out, and
blushing, said, "Don't you know me? "
## p. 14703 (#277) ##########################################
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
14703
It was little Newcome, my schoolfellow, whom I had not seen
for six years; grown a fine, tall young stripling now, with the
same bright blue eyes which I remembered when he was quite a
little boy.
"What the deuce brings you here? " said I.
He laughed, and looked roguish. "My father- that's my
father would come. He's just come back from India. He says
all the wits used to come here,- Mr. Sheridan, Captain Morris,
Colonel Hanger, Professor Porson. I told him your name, and
that you used to be very kind to me when I first went to Smith-
field. I've left now; I'm to have a private tutor. I say, I've
got such a jolly pony! It's better fun than old Smiffle. "
Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, pointing to
a waiter to follow him with his glass of sherry-and-water, strode
across the room, twirling his mustaches, and came up to the
table where we sat, making a salutation with his hat in a very
stately and polite manner, so that Hoskins himself was, as it
were, obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured among them-
selves (their eyes rolling over their glasses toward one another as
they sucked brandy-and-water); and that mischievous little wag,
little Nadab the Improvisatore (who had just come in), began to
mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers after the manner of
the stranger, and flapping about his pocket handkerchief in the
most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by sternly
looking toward Nadab; and at the same time called upon the
gents to give their orders, the waiter being in the room, and Mr.
Bellew about to sing a song.
Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me. I
daresay I blushed; for I had been comparing him to the admi-
rable Harley in 'The Critic,' and had christened him Don Ferolo
Whiskerandos.
―
He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant; and with
a cordiality so simple and sincere that my laughter shrank away
ashamed, and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and
friendly. In youth, you see, one is touched by kindness. A man
of the world may of course be grateful or not, as he chooses.
"I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, "to my boy.
And whoever is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow me
to sit down by you? and may I beg you to try my cheroots? "
We were friends in a minute-young Newcome snuggling by my
side, his father opposite,- to whom, after a minute or two of
conversation, I presented my three college friends.
## p. 14704 (#278) ##########################################
14704
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
"You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says the
colonel. "Are there any celebrated persons in the room? I have
been five-and-thirty years from home, and want to see all that is
to be seen. "
King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was on the
point of pulling some dreadful long-bow, and pointing out a half-
dozen of people in the room as R and H and L———,
etc. , the most celebrated wits of that day; but I cut King's shins
under the table, and got the fellow to hold his tongue.
"Maxima debetur pueris," says Jones (a fellow of very kind
feeling, who has gone into the Church since); and writing on
his card to Hoskins, hinted to him that a boy was in the room,
and a gentleman who was quite a greenhorn, hence that the songs
had better be carefully selected.
And so they were. A lady's school might have come in, and
but for the smell of the cigars and brandy-and-water have taken
no harm by what happened. Why should it not always be so?
If there are any Caves of Harmony now, I warrant Messieurs
the landlords their interests would be better consulted by keeping
their singers within bounds. The very greatest scamps like pretty
songs, and are melted by them; so are honest people. It was
worth a guinea to see the simple colonel, and his delight at the
music.
