Vanity Fair - Page 138/573

Our surprised story now finds itself for a moment among very famous

events and personages, and hanging on to the skirts of history. When

the eagles of Napoleon Bonaparte, the Corsican upstart, were flying

from Provence, where they had perched after a brief sojourn in Elba,

and from steeple to steeple until they reached the towers of Notre

Dame, I wonder whether the Imperial birds had any eye for a little

corner of the parish of Bloomsbury, London, which you might have

thought so quiet, that even the whirring and flapping of those mighty

wings would pass unobserved there?

"Napoleon has landed at Cannes." Such news might create a panic at

Vienna, and cause Russia to drop his cards, and take Prussia into a

corner, and Talleyrand and Metternich to wag their heads together,

while Prince Hardenberg, and even the present Marquis of Londonderry,

were puzzled; but how was this intelligence to affect a young lady in

Russell Square, before whose door the watchman sang the hours when she

was asleep: who, if she strolled in the square, was guarded there by

the railings and the beadle: who, if she walked ever so short a

distance to buy a ribbon in Southampton Row, was followed by Black

Sambo with an enormous cane: who was always cared for, dressed, put to

bed, and watched over by ever so many guardian angels, with and without

wages? Bon Dieu, I say, is it not hard that the fateful rush of the

great Imperial struggle can't take place without affecting a poor

little harmless girl of eighteen, who is occupied in billing and

cooing, or working muslin collars in Russell Square? You too, kindly,

homely flower!--is the great roaring war tempest coming to sweep you

down, here, although cowering under the shelter of Holborn? Yes;

Napoleon is flinging his last stake, and poor little Emmy Sedley's

happiness forms, somehow, part of it.

In the first place, her father's fortune was swept down with that fatal

news. All his speculations had of late gone wrong with the luckless

old gentleman. Ventures had failed; merchants had broken; funds had

risen when he calculated they would fall. What need to particularize?

If success is rare and slow, everybody knows how quick and easy ruin

is. Old Sedley had kept his own sad counsel. Everything seemed to go

on as usual in the quiet, opulent house; the good-natured mistress

pursuing, quite unsuspiciously, her bustling idleness, and daily easy

avocations; the daughter absorbed still in one selfish, tender thought,

and quite regardless of all the world besides, when that final crash

came, under which the worthy family fell.

One night Mrs. Sedley was writing cards for a party; the Osbornes had

given one, and she must not be behindhand; John Sedley, who had come

home very late from the City, sate silent at the chimney side, while

his wife was prattling to him; Emmy had gone up to her room ailing and

low-spirited. "She's not happy," the mother went on. "George Osborne

neglects her. I've no patience with the airs of those people. The

girls have not been in the house these three weeks; and George has been

twice in town without coming. Edward Dale saw him at the Opera.

Edward would marry her I'm sure: and there's Captain Dobbin who, I

think, would--only I hate all army men. Such a dandy as George has

become. With his military airs, indeed! We must show some folks that

we're as good as they. Only give Edward Dale any encouragement, and

you'll see. We must have a party, Mr. S. Why don't you speak, John?

Shall I say Tuesday fortnight? Why don't you answer? Good God, John,

what has happened?"