Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray (best summer books .txt) 📗

not been injured by the way in which I have dealt with it, and if we are come to bandying reproaches, I at least merit none from his widow and the mother of his son. Reflect, afterwards when⁠—when you are at leisure, and your conscience will withdraw this accusation. It does even now.” Amelia held down her head.

“It is not that speech of yesterday,” he continued, “which moves you. That is but the pretext, Amelia, or I have loved you and watched you for fifteen years in vain. Have I not learned in that time to read all your feelings and look into your thoughts? I know what your heart is capable of: it can cling faithfully to a recollection and cherish a fancy, but it can’t feel such an attachment as mine deserves to mate with, and such as I would have won from a woman more generous than you. No, you are not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you. I knew all along that the prize I had set my life on was not worth the winning; that I was a fool, with fond fancies, too, bartering away my all of truth and ardour against your little feeble remnant of love. I will bargain no more: I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You are very good-natured, and have done your best, but you couldn’t⁠—you couldn’t reach up to the height of the attachment which I bore you, and which a loftier soul than yours might have been proud to share. Goodbye, Amelia! I have watched your struggle. Let it end. We are both weary of it.”

Amelia stood scared and silent as William thus suddenly broke the chain by which she held him and declared his independence and superiority. He had placed himself at her feet so long that the poor little woman had been accustomed to trample upon him. She didn’t wish to marry him, but she wished to keep him. She wished to give him nothing, but that he should give her all. It is a bargain not unfrequently levied in love.

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

“Am I to understand then, that you are going⁠—away, William?” she said.

He gave a sad laugh. “I went once before,” he said, “and came back after twelve years. We were young then, Amelia. Goodbye. I have spent enough of my life at this play.”

Whilst they had been talking, the door into Mrs. Osborne’s room had opened ever so little; indeed, Becky had kept a hold of the handle and had turned it on the instant when Dobbin quitted it, and she heard every word of the conversation that had passed between these two. “What a noble heart that man has,” she thought, “and how shamefully that woman plays with it!” She admired Dobbin; she bore him no rancour for the part he had taken against her. It was an open move in the game, and played fairly. “Ah!” she thought, “if I could have had such a husband as that⁠—a man with a heart and brains too! I would not have minded his large feet”; and running into her room, she absolutely bethought herself of something, and wrote him a note, beseeching him to stop for a few days⁠—not to think of going⁠—and that she could serve him with A.

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

At the romantic hour of dinner, Mr. Georgy made his appearance and again remarked the absence of “Old Dob.” The meal was eaten in silence by the party. Jos’s appetite not being diminished, but Emmy taking nothing at all.

After the meal, Georgy was lolling in the cushions of the old window, a large window, with three sides of glass abutting from the gable, and commanding on one side the marketplace, where the Elephant is, his mother being busy hard by, when he remarked symptoms of movement at the Major’s house on the other side of the street.

“Hullo!” said he, “there’s Dob’s trap⁠—they are bringing it out of the courtyard.” The “trap” in question was a carriage which the Major had bought for six pounds sterling, and about which they used to rally him a good deal.

Emmy gave a little start, but said nothing.

“Hullo!” Georgy continued, “there’s Francis coming out with the portmanteaus, and Kunz, the one-eyed postilion, coming down the market with three schimmels. Look at his boots and yellow jacket⁠—ain’t he a rum one? Why⁠—they’re putting the horses to Dob’s carriage. Is he going anywhere?”

“Yes,” said Emmy, “he is going on a journey.”

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

“He is⁠—not coming back,” answered Emmy.

“Not coming back!” cried out Georgy, jumping up.

“Stay here, sir,” roared out Jos.

“Stay, Georgy,” said his mother with a very sad face. The boy stopped, kicked about the room, jumped up and down from the window-seat with his knees, and showed every symptom of uneasiness and curiosity.

The horses were put to. The baggage was strapped on. Francis came out with his master’s sword, cane, and umbrella tied up together, and laid them in the well, and his desk and old tin cocked-hat case, which he placed under the seat. Francis brought out the stained old blue cloak lined with red camlet, which had wrapped the owner up any time these fifteen years, and had manchen Sturm erlebt, as a favourite song of those days said. It had been new for the campaign of Waterloo and had covered George and William after the night of Quatre Bras.

Old Burcke, the landlord of the lodgings, came out, then Francis, with more packages⁠—final packages⁠—then Major William⁠—Burcke wanted to kiss him. The Major was adored by all people with whom he