Vanity Fair William Makepeace Thackeray (portable ebook reader .txt) 📖

evening the whole English line received the order to advance, as the enemy fell back after his last charge, that the Captain, hurraying and rushing down the hill waving his sword, received a shot and fell dead. “It was Major Dobbin who took back the Captain’s body to Brussels,” the Sergeant said, in a low voice, “and had him buried, 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 of mementoes of the fight, crosses, and epaulets, and shattered cuirasses, and eagles.

Osborne gave a sumptuous reward to the Sergeant when he parted with him, after having visited the scenes of his son’s last exploits. His burial-place he had already seen. Indeed, he had driven thither immediately after his arrival at Brussels. George’s body lay in the pretty burial-ground of Laeken, near the city; in which place, having once visited it on a party of pleasure, he had lightly expressed a wish to have his grave made. And there the young officer was laid by his friend, in the unconsecrated corner of the garden, separated by a little hedge from the temples and towers and plantations of flowers and shrubs, under which the Roman Catholic dead repose. It seemed a humiliation to old Osborne to think that his son, an English gentleman, a captain in the famous British army, should not be found worthy to lie in ground where mere foreigners were buried. Which of us is there can tell how much vanity lurks in our warmest regard for others, and how selfish our love is? Old Osborne did not speculate much upon the mingled nature of his feelings, and how his instinct and selfishness were combating together. He firmly believed that everything he did was right, that he ought on all occasions to have his own way⁠—and like the sting of a wasp or serpent his hatred rushed out armed and poisonous against anything like opposition. He was proud of his hatred as of everything else. Always to be right, always to trample forward, and never to doubt, are not these the great qualities with which dullness takes the lead in the world?

As after the drive to Waterloo, Mr. Osborne’s carriage was nearing the gates of the city at sunset, they met another open barouche, in which were a couple of ladies and a gentleman, and by the side of which an officer was riding. 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 mechanically returned his salute. It was Amelia, with the lame young Ensign by her side, and opposite to her her faithful friend Mrs. O’Dowd. It was Amelia, but how changed from the fresh and comely girl Osborne knew. Her face was white and thin. Her pretty brown hair was parted under a widow’s cap⁠—the poor child. Her eyes were fixed, and looking nowhere. They stared blank in the face of Osborne, as the carriages crossed each other, but she did not know him; nor did he recognise her, until looking up, he saw Dobbin riding by her: and then he knew who it was. He hated her. He did not know how much until he saw her there. When her carriage had passed on, he turned and stared at the Sergeant, with a curse and defiance in his eye cast at his companion, who could not help looking at him⁠—as much as to say “How dare you look at me? Damn you! I do hate her. It is she who has tumbled my hopes and all my pride down.” “Tell the scoundrel to drive on quick,” he shouted with an oath, to the lackey on the box. A minute afterwards, a horse came clattering over the pavement behind Osborne’s carriage, and Dobbin rode up. His thoughts had 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 passed him. Then he turned to examine if the sight of her father-in-law had made any impression on Amelia, but the poor girl did not know who had passed. Then William, who daily used to accompany her in his drives, taking out his watch, made some excuse about an engagement which he suddenly recollected, and so rode off. She did not remark that either: but sat looking before her, over the homely landscape towards the woods in the distance, by which George marched away.

“Mr. Osborne, Mr. Osborne!” cried Dobbin, as he rode up and held out his hand. Osborne made no motion to take it, but shouted out once more and with another curse to his servant to drive on.

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

“From that woman?” said Osborne, fiercely.

“No,” replied the other, “from your son”; at which Osborne fell back into the corner of his carriage, and Dobbin allowing it to pass on, rode close behind it, and so through the town until they reached Mr. Osborne’s hotel, and without a word. There he followed Osborne up to his apartments. George had often been in the rooms; they were the lodgings which the Crawleys had occupied during their stay in Brussels.

“Pray, have you any commands for me, Captain Dobbin, or, I beg your pardon, I should say Major Dobbin, since better men than you are dead, and you step into their shoes?” said Mr. Osborne, in that sarcastic tone which he sometimes was pleased to assume.

“Better men are dead,” Dobbin replied. “I want to speak 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 went into action. Are you aware how small his means are, and