William Thackeray - Vanity Fair

After the first movement of terror in Amelia’s mind - when Rebecca’s green eyes lighted upon her, and rustling in her fresh silks and brilliant ornaments, the latter tripped up with extended arms to embrace her - a feeling of anger succeeded, and from being deadly pale before, her face flushed up red, and she returned Rebecca’s look after a moment with a steadiness which surprised and somewhat abashed her rival.

“Dearest Amelia, you are very unwell,” the visitor said, putting forth her hand to take Amelia’s. “What is it? I could not rest until I knew how you were.”

Amelia drew back her hand - never since her life began had that gentle soul refused to believe or to answer any demonstration of good-will or affection. But she drew back her hand, and trembled all over. “Why are you here, Rebecca?” she said, still looking at her solemnly with her large eyes. These glances troubled her visitor.

“She must have seen him give me the letter at the ball,” Rebecca thought. “Don’t be agitated, dear Amelia,” she said, looking down. “I came but to see if I could - if you were well.”

“Are you well?” said Amelia. “I dare say you are. You don’t love your husband. You would not be here if you did. Tell me, Rebecca, did I ever do you anything but kindness?”

“Indeed, Amelia, no,” the other said, still hanging down her head.

“When you were quite poor, who was it that befriended you? Was I not a sister to you? You saw us all in happier days before he married me. I was all in all then to him; or would he have given up his fortune, his family, as he nobly did to make me happy? Why did you come between my love and me? Who sent you to separate those whom God joined, and take my darling’s heart from me - my own husband? Do you think you could I love him as I did? His love was everything to me. You knew it, and wanted to rob me of it. For shame, Rebecca; bad and wicked woman - false friend and false wife.”

“Amelia, I protest before God, I have done my husband no wrong,” Rebecca said, turning from her.

“Have you done me no wrong, Rebecca? You did not succeed, but you tried. Ask your heart if you did not.”

She knows nothing, Rebecca thought.

“He came back to me. I knew he would. I knew that no falsehood, no flattery, could keep him from me long. I knew he would come. I prayed so that he should.”

The poor girl spoke these words with a spirit and volubility which Rebecca had never before seen in her, and before which the latter was quite dumb. “But what have I done to you,” she continued in a more pitiful tone, “that you should try and take him from me? I had him but for six weeks. You might have spared me those, Rebecca. And yet, from the very first day of our wedding, you came and blighted it. Now he is gone, are you come to see how unhappy I am?” she continued. “You made me wretched enough for the past fortnight: you might have spared me to-day.”

“I - I never came here,” interposed Rebecca, with unlucky truth.

“No. You didn’t come. You took him away. Are you come to fetch him from me?” she continued in a wilder tone. “He was here, but he is gone now. There on that very sofa he sate. Don’t touch it. We sate and talked there. I was on his knee, and my arms were round his neck, and we said ‘Our Father.’ Yes, he was here: and they came and took him away, but he promised me to come back.”

“He will come back, my dear,” said Rebecca, touched in spite of herself.

“Look,” said Amelia, “this is his sash - isn’t it a pretty colour?” and she took up the fringe and kissed it. She had tied it round her waist at some part of the day. She had forgotten her anger, her jealousy, the very presence of her rival seemingly. For she walked silently and almost with a smile on her face, towards the bed, and began to smooth down George’s pillow.

Rebecca walked, too, silently away. “How is Amelia?” asked Jos, who still held his position in the chair.

“There should be somebody with her,” said Rebecca. “I think she is very unwell”: and she went away with a very grave face, refusing Mr. Sedley’s entreaties that she would stay and partake of the early dinner which he had ordered.

Rebecca was of a good-natured and obliging disposition; and she liked Amelia rather than otherwise. Even her hard words, reproachful as they were, were complimentary - the groans of a person stinging under defeat. Meeting Mrs. O’Dowd, whom the Dean’s sermons had by no means comforted, and who was walking very disconsolately in the Parc, Rebecca accosted the latter, rather to the surprise of the Major’s wife, who was not accustomed to such marks of politeness from Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, and informing her that poor little Mrs. Osborne was in a desperate condition, and almost mad with grief, sent off the good-natured Irishwoman straight to see if she could console her young favourite.

“I’ve cares of my own enough,” Mrs. O’Dowd said, gravely, “and I thought poor Amelia would be little wanting for company this day. But if she’s so bad as you say, and you can’t attend to her, who used to be so fond of her, faith I’ll see if I can be of service. And so good marning to ye, Madam”; with which speech and a toss of her head, the lady of the repayther took a farewell of Mrs. Crawley, whose company she by no means courted.

Becky watched her marching off, with a smile on her lip. She had the keenest sense of humour, and the Parthian look which the retreating Mrs. O’Dowd flung over her shoulder almost upset Mrs. Crawley’s gravity. “My service to ye, me fine Madam, and I’m glad to see ye so cheerful,” thought Peggy. “It’s not YOU that will cry your eyes out with grief, anyway.” And with this she passed on, and speedily found her way to Mrs. Osborne’s lodgings.

The poor soul was still at the bedside, where Rebecca had left her, and stood almost crazy with grief. The Major’s wife, a stronger-minded woman, endeavoured her best to comfort her young friend. “You must bear up, Amelia, dear,” she said kindly, “for he mustn’t find you ill when he sends for you after the victory. It’s not you are the only woman that are in the hands of God this day.”

“I know that. I am very wicked, very weak,” Amelia said. She knew her own weakness well enough. The presence of the more resolute friend checked it, however; and she was the better of this control and company. They went on till two o’clock; their hearts were with the column as it marched farther and farther away. Dreadful doubt and anguish - prayers and fears and griefs unspeakable - followed the regiment. It was the women’s tribute to the war. It taxes both alike, and takes the blood of the men, and the tears of the women.

At half-past two, an event occurred of daily importance to Mr. Joseph: the dinner-hour arrived. Warriors may fight and perish, but he must dine. He came into Amelia’s room to see if he could coax her to share that meal. “Try,” said he; “the soup is very good. Do try, Emmy,” and he kissed her hand. Except when she was married, he had not done so much for years before. “You are very good and kind, Joseph,” she said. “Everybody is, but, if you please, I will stay in my room to-day.”

The savour of the soup, however, was agreeable to Mrs. O’Dowd’s nostrils: and she thought she would bear Mr. Jos company. So the two sate down to their meal. “God bless the meat,” said the Major’s wife, solemnly: she was thinking of her honest Mick, riding at the head of his regiment: “’Tis but a bad dinner those poor boys will get to-day,” she said, with a sigh, and then, like a philosopher, fell to.

Jos’s spirits rose with his meal. He would drink the regiment’s health; or, indeed, take any other excuse to indulge in a glass of champagne. “We’ll drink to O’Dowd and the brave -th,” said he, bowing gallantly to his guest. “Hey, Mrs. O’Dowd? Fill Mrs. O’Dowd’s glass, Isidor.”