Vanity Fair - Page 267/573

But success or defeat was a minor matter to them, who had only thought

for the safety of those they loved. Amelia, at the news of the victory,

became still more agitated even than before. She was for going that

moment to the army. She besought her brother with tears to conduct her

thither. Her doubts and terrors reached their paroxysm; and the poor

girl, who for many hours had been plunged into stupor, raved and ran

hither and thither in hysteric insanity--a piteous sight. No man

writhing in pain on the hard-fought field fifteen miles off, where lay,

after their struggles, so many of the brave--no man suffered more

keenly than this poor harmless victim of the war. Jos could not bear

the sight of her pain. He left his sister in the charge of her stouter

female companion, and descended once more to the threshold of the

hotel, where everybody still lingered, and talked, and waited for more

news.

It grew to be broad daylight as they stood here, and fresh news began

to arrive from the war, brought by men who had been actors in the

scene. Wagons and long country carts laden with wounded came rolling

into the town; ghastly groans came from within them, and haggard faces

looked up sadly from out of the straw. Jos Sedley was looking at one

of these carriages with a painful curiosity--the moans of the people

within were frightful--the wearied horses could hardly pull the cart.

"Stop! stop!" a feeble voice cried from the straw, and the carriage

stopped opposite Mr. Sedley's hotel.

"It is George, I know it is!" cried Amelia, rushing in a moment to the

balcony, with a pallid face and loose flowing hair. It was not George,

however, but it was the next best thing: it was news of him.

It was poor Tom Stubble, who had marched out of Brussels so gallantly

twenty-four hours before, bearing the colours of the regiment, which he

had defended very gallantly upon the field. A French lancer had

speared the young ensign in the leg, who fell, still bravely holding to

his flag. At the conclusion of the engagement, a place had been found

for the poor boy in a cart, and he had been brought back to Brussels.

"Mr. Sedley, Mr. Sedley!" cried the boy, faintly, and Jos came up

almost frightened at the appeal. He had not at first distinguished who

it was that called him.

Little Tom Stubble held out his hot and feeble hand. "I'm to be taken

in here," he said. "Osborne--and--and Dobbin said I was; and you are

to give the man two napoleons: my mother will pay you." This young

fellow's thoughts, during the long feverish hours passed in the cart,

had been wandering to his father's parsonage which he had quitted only

a few months before, and he had sometimes forgotten his pain in that

delirium.