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Frankness and kindness like Amelia's were likely to touch even such ahardened little reprobate as Becky. She returned Emmy's caresses andkind speeches with something very like gratitude, and an emotion which,if it was not lasting, for a moment was almost genuine. That was alucky stroke of hers about the child "torn from her arms shrieking." Itwas by that harrowing misfortune that Becky had won her friend back,and it was one of the very first points, we may be certain, upon whichour poor simple little Emmy began to talk to her new-found acquaintance.

"And so they took your darling child from you?" our simpleton criedout. "Oh, Rebecca, my poor dear suffering friend, I know what it is tolose a boy, and to feel for those who have lost one. But please Heavenyours will be restored to you, as a merciful merciful Providence hasbrought me back mine."

"The child, my child? Oh, yes, my agonies were frightful," Becky owned,not perhaps without a twinge of conscience. It jarred upon her to beobliged to commence instantly to tell lies in reply to so muchconfidence and simplicity. But that is the misfortune of beginningwith this kind of forgery. When one fib becomes due as it were, youmust forge another to take up the old acceptance; and so the stock ofyour lies in circulation inevitably multiplies, and the danger ofdetection increases every day.

"My agonies," Becky continued, "were terrible (I hope she won't sitdown on the bottle) when they took him away from me; I thought I shoulddie; but I fortunately had a brain fever, during which my doctor gaveme up, and--and I recovered, and--and here I am, poor and friendless."

"How old is he?" Emmy asked.

"Eleven," said Becky.

"Eleven!" cried the other. "Why, he was born the same year withGeorgy, who is--"

"I know, I know," Becky cried out, who had in fact quite forgotten allabout little Rawdon's age. "Grief has made me forget so many things,dearest Amelia. I am very much changed: half-wild sometimes. He waseleven when they took him away from me. Bless his sweet face; I havenever seen it again."

"Was he fair or dark?" went on that absurd little Emmy. "Show me hishair."

Becky almost laughed at her simplicity. "Not to-day, love--some othertime, when my trunks arrive from Leipzig, whence I came to thisplace--and a little drawing of him, which I made in happy days."

"Poor Becky, poor Becky!" said Emmy. "How thankful, how thankful Iought to be"; (though I doubt whether that practice of piety inculcatedupon us by our womankind in early youth, namely, to be thankful becausewe are better off than somebody else, be a very rational religiousexercise) and then she began to think, as usual, how her son was thehandsomest, the best, and the cleverest boy in the whole world.

"You will see my Georgy," was the best thing Emmy could think of toconsole Becky. If anything could make her comfortable that would.

And so the two women continued talking for an hour or more, duringwhich Becky had the opportunity of giving her new friend a full andcomplete version of her private history. She showed how her marriagewith Rawdon Crawley had always been viewed by the family with feelingsof the utmost hostility; how her sister-in-law (an artful woman) hadpoisoned her husband's mind against her; how he had formed odiousconnections, which had estranged his affections from her: how she hadborne everything--poverty, neglect, coldness from the being whom shemost loved--and all for the sake of her child; how, finally, and by themost flagrant outrage, she had been driven into demanding a separationfrom her husband, when the wretch did not scruple to ask that sheshould sacrifice her own fair fame so that he might procure advancementthrough the means of a very great and powerful but unprincipledman--the Marquis of Steyne, indeed. The atrocious monster!

This part of her eventful history Becky gave with the utmost femininedelicacy and the most indignant virtue. Forced to fly her husband'sroof by this insult, the coward had pursued his revenge by taking herchild from her. And thus Becky said she was a wanderer, poor,unprotected, friendless, and wretched.

Emmy received this story, which was told at some length, as thosepersons who are acquainted with her character may imagine that shewould. She quivered with indignation at the account of the conduct ofthe miserable Rawdon and the unprincipled Steyne. Her eyes made notesof admiration for every one of the sentences in which Becky describedthe persecutions of her aristocratic relatives and the falling away ofher husband. (Becky did not abuse him. She spoke rather in sorrow thanin anger. She had loved him only too fondly: and was he not the fatherof her boy?) And as for the separation scene from the child, whileBecky was reciting it, Emmy retired altogether behind herpocket-handkerchief, so that the consummate little tragedian must havebeen charmed to see the effect which her performance produced on heraudience.

Whilst the ladies were carrying on their conversation, Amelia'sconstant escort, the Major (who, of course, did not wish to interrupttheir conference, and found himself rather tired of creaking about thenarrow stair passage of which the roof brushed the nap from his hat)descended to the ground-floor of the house and into the great roomcommon to all the frequenters of the Elephant, out of which the stairled. This apartment is always in a fume of smoke and liberallysprinkled with beer. On a dirty table stand scores of correspondingbrass candlesticks with tallow candles for the lodgers, whose keys hangup in rows over the candles. Emmy had passed blushing through the roomanon, where all sorts of people were collected; Tyrolese glove-sellersand Danubian linen-merchants, with their packs; students recruitingthemselves with butterbrods and meat; idlers, playing cards or dominoeson the sloppy, beery tables; tumblers refreshing during the cessationof their performances--in a word, all the fumum and strepitus of aGerman inn in fair time. The waiter brought the Major a mug of beer,as a matter of course, and he took out a cigar and amused himself withthat pernicious vegetable and a newspaper until his charge should comedown to claim him.

Max and Fritz came presently downstairs, their caps on one side, theirspurs jingling, their pipes splendid with coats of arms and full-blowntassels, and they hung up the key of No. 90 on the board and called forthe ration of butterbrod and beer. The pair sat down by the Major andfell into a conversation of which he could not help hearing somewhat.It was mainly about "Fuchs" and "Philister," and duels anddrinking-bouts at the neighbouring University of Schoppenhausen, fromwhich renowned seat of learning they had just come in the Eilwagen,with Becky, as it appeared, by their side, and in order to be presentat the bridal fetes at Pumpernickel.

"The title Englanderinn seems to be en bays de gonnoisance," said Max,who knew the French language, to Fritz, his comrade. "After the fatgrandfather went away, there came a pretty little compatriot. I heardthem chattering and whimpering together in the little woman's chamber."

"We must take the tickets for her concert," Fritz said. "Hast thou anymoney, Max?"

"Bah," said the other, "the concert is a concert in nubibus. Hans saidthat she advertised one at Leipzig, and the Burschen took many tickets.But she went off without singing. She said in the coach yesterday thather pianist had fallen ill at Dresden. She cannot sing, it is mybelief: her voice is as cracked as thine, O thou beer-soaking Renowner!"

"It is cracked; I hear her trying out of her window a schrecklich.English ballad, called 'De Rose upon de Balgony.'"

"Saufen and singen go not together," observed Fritz with the red nose,who evidently preferred the former amusement. "No, thou shalt takenone of her tickets. She won money at the trente and quarante lastnight. I saw her: she made a little English boy play for her. We willspend thy money there or at the theatre, or we will treat her to Frenchwine or Cognac in the Aurelius Garden, but the tickets we will not buy.What sayest thou? Yet, another mug of beer?" and one and anothersuccessively having buried their blond whiskers in the mawkish draught,curled them and swaggered off into the fair.

The Major, who had seen the key of No. 90 put up on its hook and hadheard the conversation of the two young University bloods, was not at aloss to understand that their talk related to Becky. "The little devilis at her old tricks," he thought, and he smiled as he recalled olddays, when he had witnessed the desperate flirtation with Jos and theludicrous end of that adventure. He and George had often laughed overit subsequently, and until a few weeks after George's marriage, when healso was caught in the little Circe's toils, and had an understandingwith her which his comrade certainly suspected, but preferred toignore. William was too much hurt or ashamed to ask to fathom thatdisgraceful mystery, although once, and evidently with remorse on hismind, George had alluded to it. It was on the morning of Waterloo, asthe young men stood together in front of their line, surveying theblack masses of Frenchmen who crowned the opposite heights, and as therain was coming down, "I have been mixing in a foolish intrigue with awoman," George said. "I am glad we were marched away. If I drop, Ihope Emmy will never know of that business. I wish to God it had neverbeen begun!" And William was pleased to think, and had more than oncesoothed poor George's widow with the narrative, that Osborne, afterquitting his wife, and after the action of Quatre Bras, on the firstday, spoke gravely and affectionately to his comrade of his father andhis wife. On these facts, too, William had insisted very strongly inhis conversations with the elder Osborne, and had thus been the meansof reconciling the old gentleman to his son's memory, just at the closeof the elder man's life.

"And so this devil is still going on with her intrigues," thoughtWilliam. "I wish she were a hundred miles from here. She bringsmischief wherever she goes." And he was pursuing these forebodings andthis uncomfortable train of thought, with his head between his hands,and the Pumpernickel Gazette of last week unread under his nose, whensomebody tapped his shoulder with a parasol, and he looked up and sawMrs. Amelia.

This woman had a way of tyrannizing over Major Dobbin (for the weakestof all people will domineer over somebody), and she ordered him about,and patted him, and made him fetch and carry just as if he was a greatNewfoundland dog. He liked, so to speak, to jump into the water if shesaid "High, Dobbin!" and to trot behind her with her reticule in hismouth. This history has been written to very little purpose if thereader has not perceived that the Major was a spooney.

"Why did you not wait for me, sir, to escort me downstairs?" she said,giving a little toss of her head and a most sarcastic curtsey.

"I couldn't stand up in the passage," he answered with a comicaldeprecatory look; and, delighted to give her his arm and to take herout of the horrid smoky place, he would have walked off without even somuch as remembering the waiter, had not the young fellow run after himand stopped him on the threshold of the Elephant to make him pay forthe beer which he had not consumed. Emmy laughed: she called him anaughty man, who wanted to run away in debt, and, in fact, made somejokes suitable to the occasion and the small-beer. She was in highspirits and good humour, and tripped across the market-place verybriskly. She wanted to see Jos that instant. The Major laughed at theimpetuous affection Mrs. Amelia exhibited; for, in truth, it was notvery often that she wanted her brother "that instant." They found thecivilian in his saloon on the first-floor; he had been pacing the room,and biting his nails, and looking over the market-place towards theElephant a hundred times at least during the past hour whilst Emmy wascloseted with her friend in the garret and the Major was beating thetattoo on the sloppy tables of the public room below, and he was, onhis side too, very anxious to see Mrs. Osborne.

"Well?" said he.

"The poor dear creature, how she has suffered!" Emmy said.

"God bless my soul, yes," Jos said, wagging his head, so that hischeeks quivered like jellies.

"She may have Payne's room, who can go upstairs," Emmy continued. Paynewas a staid English maid and personal attendant upon Mrs. Osborne, towhom the courier, as in duty bound, paid court, and whom Georgy used to"lark" dreadfully with accounts of German robbers and ghosts. Shepassed her time chiefly in grumbling, in ordering about her mistress,and in stating her intention to return the next morning to her nativevillage of Clapham. "She may have Payne's room," Emmy said.

"Why, you don't mean to say you are going to have that woman into thehouse?" bounced out the Major, jumping up.

"Of course we are," said Amelia in the most innocent way in the world."Don't be angry and break the furniture, Major Dobbin. Of course weare going to have her here."

"Of course, my dear," Jos said.

"The poor creature, after all her sufferings," Emmy continued; "herhorrid banker broken and run away; her husband--wicked wretch--havingdeserted her and taken her child away from her" (here she doubled hertwo little fists and held them in a most menacing attitude before her,so that the Major was charmed to see such a dauntless virago) "the poordear thing! quite alone and absolutely forced to give lessons insinging to get her bread--and not have her here!"

"Take lessons, my dear Mrs. George," cried the Major, "but don't haveher in the house. I implore you don't."

"Pooh," said Jos.

"You who are always good and kind--always used to be at any rate--I'mastonished at you, Major William," Amelia cried. "Why, what is themoment to help her but when she is so miserable? Now is the time to beof service to her. The oldest friend I ever had, and not--"

"She was not always your friend, Amelia," the Major said, for he wasquite angry. This allusion was too much for Emmy, who, looking theMajor almost fiercely in the face, said, "For shame, Major Dobbin!" andafter having fired this shot, she walked out of the room with a mostmajestic air and shut her own door briskly on herself and her outrageddignity.

"To allude to THAT!" she said, when the door was closed. "Oh, it wascruel of him to remind me of it," and she looked up at George'spicture, which hung there as usual, with the portrait of the boyunderneath. "It was cruel of him. If I had forgiven it, ought he tohave spoken? No. And it is from his own lips that I know how wickedand groundless my jealousy was; and that you were pure--oh, yes, youwere pure, my saint in heaven!"

She paced the room, trembling and indignant. She went and leaned onthe chest of drawers over which the picture hung, and gazed and gazedat it. Its eyes seemed to look down on her with a reproach thatdeepened as she looked. The early dear, dear memories of that briefprime of love rushed back upon her. The wound which years had scarcelycicatrized bled afresh, and oh, how bitterly! She could not bear thereproaches of the husband there before her. It couldn't be. Never,never.

Poor Dobbin; poor old William! That unlucky word had undone the workof many a year--the long laborious edifice of a life of love andconstancy--raised too upon what secret and hidden foundations, whereinlay buried passions, uncounted struggles, unknown sacrifices--a littleword was spoken, and down fell the fair palace of hope--one word, andaway flew the bird which he had been trying all his life to lure!

William, though he saw by Amelia's looks that a great crisis had come,nevertheless continued to implore Sedley, in the most energetic terms,to beware of Rebecca; and he eagerly, almost frantically, adjured Josnot to receive her. He besought Mr. Sedley to inquire at leastregarding her; told him how he had heard that she was in the company ofgamblers and people of ill repute; pointed out what evil she had donein former days, how she and Crawley had misled poor George into ruin,how she was now parted from her husband, by her own confession, and,perhaps, for good reason. What a dangerous companion she would be forhis sister, who knew nothing of the affairs of the world! Williamimplored Jos, with all the eloquence which he could bring to bear, anda great deal more energy than this quiet gentleman was ordinarily inthe habit of showing, to keep Rebecca out of his household.

Had he been less violent, or more dexterous, he might have succeeded inhis supplications to Jos; but the civilian was not a little jealous ofthe airs of superiority which the Major constantly exhibited towardshim, as he fancied (indeed, he had imparted his opinions to Mr. Kirsch,the courier, whose bills Major Dobbin checked on this journey, and whosided with his master), and he began a blustering speech about hiscompetency to defend his own honour, his desire not to have his affairsmeddled with, his intention, in fine, to rebel against the Major, whenthe colloquy--rather a long and stormy one--was put an end to in thesimplest way possible, namely, by the arrival of Mrs. Becky, with aporter from the Elephant Hotel in charge of her very meagre baggage.

She greeted her host with affectionate respect and made a shrinking,but amicable salutation to Major Dobbin, who, as her instinct assuredher at once, was her enemy, and had been speaking against her; and thebustle and clatter consequent upon her arrival brought Amelia out ofher room. Emmy went up and embraced her guest with the greatestwarmth, and took no notice of the Major, except to fling him an angrylook--the most unjust and scornful glance that had perhaps everappeared in that poor little woman's face since she was born. But shehad private reasons of her own, and was bent upon being angry with him.And Dobbin, indignant at the injustice, not at the defeat, went off,making her a bow quite as haughty as the killing curtsey with which thelittle woman chose to bid him farewell.

He being gone, Emmy was particularly lively and affectionate toRebecca, and bustled about the apartments and installed her guest inher room with an eagerness and activity seldom exhibited by our placidlittle friend. But when an act of injustice is to be done, especiallyby weak people, it is best that it should be done quickly, and Emmythought she was displaying a great deal of firmness and proper feelingand veneration for the late Captain Osborne in her present behaviour.

Georgy came in from the fetes for dinner-time and found four coverslaid as usual; but one of the places was occupied by a lady, instead ofby Major Dobbin. "Hullo! where's Dob?" the young gentleman asked withhis usual simplicity of language. "Major Dobbin is dining out, Isuppose," his mother said, and, drawing the boy to her, kissed him agreat deal, and put his hair off his forehead, and introduced him toMrs. Crawley. "This is my boy, Rebecca," Mrs. Osborne said--as much asto say--can the world produce anything like that? Becky looked at himwith rapture and pressed his hand fondly. "Dear boy!" she said--"he isjust like my--" Emotion choked her further utterance, but Ameliaunderstood, as well as if she had spoken, that Becky was thinking ofher own blessed child. However, the company of her friend consoledMrs. Crawley, and she ate a very good dinner.

During the repast, she had occasion to speak several times, when Georgyeyed her and listened to her. At the desert Emmy was gone out tosuperintend further domestic arrangements; Jos was in his great chairdozing over Galignani; Georgy and the new arrival sat close to eachother--he had continued to look at her knowingly more than once, and atlast he laid down the nutcrackers.

"I say," said Georgy.

"What do you say?" Becky said, laughing.

"You're the lady I saw in the mask at the Rouge et Noir."

"Hush! you little sly creature," Becky said, taking up his hand andkissing it. "Your uncle was there too, and Mamma mustn't know."

"Oh, no--not by no means," answered the little fellow.

"You see we are quite good friends already," Becky said to Emmy, whonow re-entered; and it must be owned that Mrs. Osborne had introduced amost judicious and amiable companion into her house.

William, in a state of great indignation, though still unaware of allthe treason that was in store for him, walked about the town wildlyuntil he fell upon the Secretary of Legation, Tapeworm, who invited himto dinner. As they were discussing that meal, he took occasion to askthe Secretary whether he knew anything about a certain Mrs. RawdonCrawley, who had, he believed, made some noise in London; and thenTapeworm, who of course knew all the London gossip, and was besides arelative of Lady Gaunt, poured out into the astonished Major's earssuch a history about Becky and her husband as astonished the querist,and supplied all the points of this narrative, for it was at that verytable years ago that the present writer had the pleasure of hearing thetale. Tufto, Steyne, the Crawleys, and their history--everythingconnected with Becky and her previous life passed under the record ofthe bitter diplomatist. He knew everything and a great deal besides,about all the world--in a word, he made the most astounding revelationsto the simple-hearted Major. When Dobbin said that Mrs. Osborne andMr. Sedley had taken her into their house, Tapeworm burst into a pealof laughter which shocked the Major, and asked if they had not bettersend into the prison and take in one or two of the gentlemen in shavedheads and yellow jackets who swept the streets of Pumpernickel, chainedin pairs, to board and lodge, and act as tutor to that littlescapegrace Georgy.

This information astonished and horrified the Major not a little. Ithad been agreed in the morning (before meeting with Rebecca) thatAmelia should go to the Court ball that night. There would be theplace where he should tell her. The Major went home, and dressedhimself in his uniform, and repaired to Court, in hopes to see Mrs.Osborne. She never came. When he returned to his lodgings all thelights in the Sedley tenement were put out. He could not see her tillthe morning. I don't know what sort of a night's rest he had with thisfrightful secret in bed with him.

At the earliest convenient hour in the morning he sent his servantacross the way with a note, saying that he wished very particularly tospeak with her. A message came back to say that Mrs. Osborne wasexceedingly unwell and was keeping her room.

She, too, had been awake all that night. She had been thinking of athing which had agitated her mind a hundred times before. A hundredtimes on the point of yielding, she had shrunk back from a sacrificewhich she felt was too much for her. She couldn't, in spite of hislove and constancy and her own acknowledged regard, respect, andgratitude. What are benefits, what is constancy, or merit? One curl ofa girl's ringlet, one hair of a whisker, will turn the scale againstthem all in a minute. They did not weigh with Emmy more than with otherwomen. She had tried them; wanted to make them pass; could not; andthe pitiless little woman had found a pretext, and determined to befree.

When at length, in the afternoon, the Major gained admission to Amelia,instead of the cordial and affectionate greeting, to which he had beenaccustomed now for many a long day, he received the salutation of acurtsey, and of a little gloved hand, retracted the moment after it wasaccorded to him.

Rebecca, too, was in the room, and advanced to meet him with a smileand an extended hand. Dobbin drew back rather confusedly, "I--I begyour pardon, m'am," he said; "but I am bound to tell you that it is notas your friend that I am come here now."

"Pooh! damn; don't let us have this sort of thing!" Jos cried out,alarmed, and anxious to get rid of a scene.

"I wonder what Major Dobbin has to say against Rebecca?" Amelia said ina low, clear voice with a slight quiver in it, and a very determinedlook about the eyes.

"I will not have this sort of thing in my house," Jos again interposed."I say I will not have it; and Dobbin, I beg, sir, you'll stop it." Andhe looked round, trembling and turning very red, and gave a great puff,and made for his door.

"Dear friend!" Rebecca said with angelic sweetness, "do hear what MajorDobbin has to say against me."

"I will not hear it, I say," squeaked out Jos at the top of his voice,and, gathering up his dressing-gown, he was gone.

"We are only two women," Amelia said. "You can speak now, sir."

"This manner towards me is one which scarcely becomes you, Amelia," theMajor answered haughtily; "nor I believe am I guilty of habitualharshness to women. It is not a pleasure to me to do the duty which Iam come to do."

"Pray proceed with it quickly, if you please, Major Dobbin," saidAmelia, who was more and more in a pet. The expression of Dobbin'sface, as she spoke in this imperious manner, was not pleasant.

"I came to say--and as you stay, Mrs. Crawley, I must say it in yourpresence--that I think you--you ought not to form a member of thefamily of my friends. A lady who is separated from her husband, whotravels not under her own name, who frequents public gaming-tables--"

"It was to the ball I went," cried out Becky.

"--is not a fit companion for Mrs. Osborne and her son," Dobbin wenton: "and I may add that there are people here who know you, and whoprofess to know that regarding your conduct about which I don't evenwish to speak before--before Mrs. Osborne."

"Yours is a very modest and convenient sort of calumny, Major Dobbin,"Rebecca said. "You leave me under the weight of an accusation which,after all, is unsaid. What is it? Is it unfaithfulness to my husband? Iscorn it and defy anybody to prove it--I defy you, I say. My honour isas untouched as that of the bitterest enemy who ever maligned me. Isit of being poor, forsaken, wretched, that you accuse me? Yes, I amguilty of those faults, and punished for them every day. Let me go,Emmy. It is only to suppose that I have not met you, and I am no worseto-day than I was yesterday. It is only to suppose that the night isover and the poor wanderer is on her way. Don't you remember the songwe used to sing in old, dear old days? I have been wandering ever sincethen--a poor castaway, scorned for being miserable, and insultedbecause I am alone. Let me go: my stay here interferes with the plansof this gentleman."

"Indeed it does, madam," said the Major. "If I have any authority inthis house--"

"Authority, none!" broke out Amelia "Rebecca, you stay with me. Iwon't desert you because you have been persecuted, or insult youbecause--because Major Dobbin chooses to do so. Come away, dear." Andthe two women made towards the door.

William opened it. As they were going out, however, he took Amelia'shand and said--"Will you stay a moment and speak to me?"

"He wishes to speak to you away from me," said Becky, looking like amartyr. Amelia gripped her hand in reply.

"Upon my honour it is not about you that I am going to speak," Dobbinsaid. "Come back, Amelia," and she came. Dobbin bowed to Mrs.Crawley, as he shut the door upon her. Amelia looked at him, leaningagainst the glass: her face and her lips were quite white.

"I was confused when I spoke just now," the Major said after a pause,"and I misused the word authority."

"You did," said Amelia with her teeth chattering.

"At least I have claims to be heard," Dobbin continued.

"It is generous to remind me of our obligations to you," the womananswered.

"The claims I mean are those left me by George's father," William said.

"Yes, and you insulted his memory. You did yesterday. You know youdid. And I will never forgive you. Never!" said Amelia. She shot outeach little sentence in a tremor of anger and emotion.

"You don't mean that, Amelia?" William said sadly. "You don't mean thatthese words, uttered in a hurried moment, are to weigh against a wholelife's devotion? I think that George's memory has not been injured bythe way in which I have dealt with it, and if we are come to bandyingreproaches, I at least merit none from his widow and the mother of hisson. Reflect, afterwards when--when you are at leisure, and yourconscience will withdraw this accusation. It does even now." Ameliaheld down her head.

"It is not that speech of yesterday," he continued, "which moves you.That is but the pretext, Amelia, or I have loved you and watched youfor fifteen years in vain. Have I not learned in that time to read allyour feelings and look into your thoughts? I know what your heart iscapable of: it can cling faithfully to a recollection and cherish afancy, but it can't feel such an attachment as mine deserves to matewith, and such as I would have won from a woman more generous than you.No, you are not worthy of the love which I have devoted to you. I knewall along that the prize I had set my life on was not worth thewinning; that I was a fool, with fond fancies, too, bartering away myall of truth and ardour against your little feeble remnant of love. Iwill bargain no more: I withdraw. I find no fault with you. You arevery good-natured, and have done your best, but you couldn't--youcouldn't reach up to the height of the attachment which I bore you, andwhich a loftier soul than yours might have been proud to share.Good-bye, Amelia! I have watched your struggle. Let it end. We areboth weary of it."

Amelia stood scared and silent as William thus suddenly broke the chainby which she held him and declared his independence and superiority.He had placed himself at her feet so long that the poor little womanhad been accustomed to trample upon him. She didn't wish to marry him,but she wished to keep him. She wished to give him nothing, but thathe should give her all. It is a bargain not unfrequently levied inlove.

William's sally had quite broken and cast her down. HER assault waslong since over and beaten back.

"Am I to understand then, that you are going--away, William?" she said.

He gave a sad laugh. "I went once before," he said, "and came backafter twelve years. We were young then, Amelia. Good-bye. I havespent enough of my life at this play."

Whilst they had been talking, the door into Mrs. Osborne's room hadopened ever so little; indeed, Becky had kept a hold of the handle andhad turned it on the instant when Dobbin quitted it, and she heardevery word of the conversation that had passed between these two. "Whata noble heart that man has," she thought, "and how shamefully thatwoman plays with it!" She admired Dobbin; she bore him no rancour forthe part he had taken against her. It was an open move in the game,and played fairly. "Ah!" she thought, "if I could have had such ahusband as that--a man with a heart and brains too! I would not haveminded his large feet"; and running into her room, she absolutelybethought herself of something, and wrote him a note, beseeching him tostop for a few days--not to think of going--and that she could servehim with A.

The parting was over. Once more poor William walked to the door andwas gone; and the little widow, the author of all this work, had herwill, and had won her victory, and was left to enjoy it as she bestmight. Let the ladies envy her triumph.

At the romantic hour of dinner, Mr. Georgy made his appearance andagain remarked the absence of "Old Dob." The meal was eaten in silenceby the party. Jos's appetite not being diminished, but Emmy takingnothing at all.

After the meal, Georgy was lolling in the cushions of the old window, alarge window, with three sides of glass abutting from the gable, andcommanding on one side the market-place, where the Elephant is, hismother being busy hard by, when he remarked symptoms of movement at theMajor's house on the other side of the street.

"Hullo!" said he, "there's Dob's trap--they are bringing it out of thecourt-yard." The "trap" in question was a carriage which the Major hadbought for six pounds sterling, and about which they used to rally hima good deal.

Emmy gave a little start, but said nothing.

"Hullo!" Georgy continued, "there's Francis coming out with theportmanteaus, and Kunz, the one-eyed postilion, coming down the marketwith three schimmels. Look at his boots and yellow jacket--ain't he arum one? Why--they're putting the horses to Dob's carriage. Is he goinganywhere?"

"Yes," said Emmy, "he is going on a journey."

"Going on a journey; and when is he coming back?"

"He is--not coming back," answered Emmy.

"Not coming back!" cried out Georgy, jumping up. "Stay here, sir,"roared out Jos. "Stay, Georgy," said his mother with a very sad face.The boy stopped, kicked about the room, jumped up and down from thewindow-seat with his knees, and showed every symptom of uneasiness andcuriosity.

The horses were put to. The baggage was strapped on. Francis came outwith his master's sword, cane, and umbrella tied up together, and laidthem in the well, and his desk and old tin cocked-hat case, which heplaced under the seat. Francis brought out the stained old blue cloaklined with red camlet, which had wrapped the owner up any time thesefifteen years, and had manchen Sturm erlebt, as a favourite song ofthose days said. It had been new for the campaign of Waterloo and hadcovered George and William after the night of Quatre Bras.

Old Burcke, the landlord of the lodgings, came out, then Francis, withmore packages--final packages--then Major William--Burcke wanted tokiss him. The Major was adored by all people with whom he had to do.It was with difficulty he could escape from this demonstration ofattachment.

"By Jove, I will go!" screamed out George. "Give him this," saidBecky, quite interested, and put a paper into the boy's hand. He hadrushed down the stairs and flung across the street in a minute--theyellow postilion was cracking his whip gently.

William had got into the carriage, released from the embraces of hislandlord. George bounded in afterwards, and flung his arms round theMajor's neck (as they saw from the window), and began asking himmultiplied questions. Then he felt in his waistcoat pocket and gavehim a note. William seized at it rather eagerly, he opened ittrembling, but instantly his countenance changed, and he tore the paperin two and dropped it out of the carriage. He kissed Georgy on thehead, and the boy got out, doubling his fists into his eyes, and withthe aid of Francis. He lingered with his hand on the panel. Fort,Schwager! The yellow postilion cracked his whip prodigiously, upsprang Francis to the box, away went the schimmels, and Dobbin with hishead on his breast. He never looked up as they passed under Amelia'swindow, and Georgy, left alone in the street, burst out crying in theface of all the crowd.

Emmy's maid heard him howling again during the night and brought himsome preserved apricots to console him. She mingled her lamentationswith his. All the poor, all the humble, all honest folks, all good menwho knew him, loved that kind-hearted and simple gentleman.

As for Emmy, had she not done her duty? She had her picture of Georgefor a consolation.