Vanity Fair - Page 247/573

If Captain Dobbin expected to get any personal comfort and satisfaction

from having one more view of Amelia before the regiment marched away,

his selfishness was punished just as such odious egotism deserved to

be. The door of Jos's bedroom opened into the sitting-room which was

common to the family party, and opposite this door was that of Amelia's

chamber. The bugles had wakened everybody: there was no use in

concealment now. George's servant was packing in this room: Osborne

coming in and out of the contiguous bedroom, flinging to the man such

articles as he thought fit to carry on the campaign. And presently

Dobbin had the opportunity which his heart coveted, and he got sight of

Amelia's face once more. But what a face it was! So white, so wild

and despair-stricken, that the remembrance of it haunted him afterwards

like a crime, and the sight smote him with inexpressible pangs of

longing and pity.

She was wrapped in a white morning dress, her hair falling on her

shoulders, and her large eyes fixed and without light. By way of

helping on the preparations for the departure, and showing that she too

could be useful at a moment so critical, this poor soul had taken up a

sash of George's from the drawers whereon it lay, and followed him to

and fro with the sash in her hand, looking on mutely as his packing

proceeded. She came out and stood, leaning at the wall, holding this

sash against her bosom, from which the heavy net of crimson dropped

like a large stain of blood. Our gentle-hearted Captain felt a guilty

shock as he looked at her. "Good God," thought he, "and is it grief

like this I dared to pry into?" And there was no help: no means to

soothe and comfort this helpless, speechless misery. He stood for a

moment and looked at her, powerless and torn with pity, as a parent

regards an infant in pain.

At last, George took Emmy's hand, and led her back into the bedroom,

from whence he came out alone. The parting had taken place in that

moment, and he was gone.

"Thank Heaven that is over," George thought, bounding down the stair,

his sword under his arm, as he ran swiftly to the alarm ground, where

the regiment was mustered, and whither trooped men and officers

hurrying from their billets; his pulse was throbbing and his cheeks

flushed: the great game of war was going to be played, and he one of

the players. What a fierce excitement of doubt, hope, and pleasure!

What tremendous hazards of loss or gain! What were all the games of

chance he had ever played compared to this one? Into all contests

requiring athletic skill and courage, the young man, from his boyhood

upwards, had flung himself with all his might. The champion of his

school and his regiment, the bravos of his companions had followed him

everywhere; from the boys' cricket-match to the garrison-races, he had

won a hundred of triumphs; and wherever he went women and men had

admired and envied him. What qualities are there for which a man gets

so speedy a return of applause, as those of bodily superiority,

activity, and valour? Time out of mind strength and courage have been

the theme of bards and romances; and from the story of Troy down to

to-day, poetry has always chosen a soldier for a hero. I wonder is it

because men are cowards in heart that they admire bravery so much, and

place military valour so far beyond every other quality for reward and

worship?