Vanity Fair - Page 512/573

A secret feud of some years' standing was thus healed, and with a tacit

reconciliation. In these last hours, and touched by her love and

goodness, the old man forgot all his grief against her, and wrongs

which he and his wife had many a long night debated: how she had given

up everything for her boy; how she was careless of her parents in their

old age and misfortune, and only thought of the child; how absurdly and

foolishly, impiously indeed, she took on when George was removed from

her. Old Sedley forgot these charges as he was making up his last

account, and did justice to the gentle and uncomplaining little martyr.

One night when she stole into his room, she found him awake, when the

broken old man made his confession. "Oh, Emmy, I've been thinking we

were very unkind and unjust to you," he said and put out his cold and

feeble hand to her. She knelt down and prayed by his bedside, as he did

too, having still hold of her hand. When our turn comes, friend, may

we have such company in our prayers!

Perhaps as he was lying awake then, his life may have passed before

him--his early hopeful struggles, his manly successes and prosperity,

his downfall in his declining years, and his present helpless

condition--no chance of revenge against Fortune, which had had the

better of him--neither name nor money to bequeath--a spent-out,

bootless life of defeat and disappointment, and the end here! Which, I

wonder, brother reader, is the better lot, to die prosperous and

famous, or poor and disappointed? To have, and to be forced to yield;

or to sink out of life, having played and lost the game? That must be a

strange feeling, when a day of our life comes and we say, "To-morrow,

success or failure won't matter much, and the sun will rise, and all

the myriads of mankind go to their work or their pleasure as usual, but

I shall be out of the turmoil."

So there came one morning and sunrise when all the world got up and set

about its various works and pleasures, with the exception of old John

Sedley, who was not to fight with fortune, or to hope or scheme any

more, but to go and take up a quiet and utterly unknown residence in a

churchyard at Brompton by the side of his old wife.

Major Dobbin, Jos, and Georgy followed his remains to the grave, in a

black cloth coach. Jos came on purpose from the Star and Garter at

Richmond, whither he retreated after the deplorable event. He did not

care to remain in the house, with the--under the circumstances, you

understand. But Emmy stayed and did her duty as usual. She was bowed

down by no especial grief, and rather solemn than sorrowful. She

prayed that her own end might be as calm and painless, and thought with

trust and reverence of the words which she had heard from her father

during his illness, indicative of his faith, his resignation, and his

future hope.