Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray (best thriller novels to read TXT) 📕

It was almost like Old England. The house was filled with familiar British faces, and those toilettes for which the British female has long been celebrated. Mrs. O’Dowd’s was not the least splendid amongst these, and she had a curl on her forehead, and a set of Irish diamonds and Cairngorms, which outshone all the decorations in the house, in her notion. Her presence used to excruciate Osborne; but go she would upon all parties of pleasure on which she heard her young friends were bent. It never entered into her thought but that they must be charmed with her company.

“She’s been useful to you, my dear,” George said to his wife, whom he could leave alone with less scruple when she had this society. “But what a comfort it is that Rebecca’s come: you will have her for a friend, and we may get rid now of this damn’d Irishwoman.” To this Amelia did not answer, yes or no: and how do we know what her thoughts were?

The coup-d’oeil of the Brussels opera-house did not strike Mrs. O’Dowd as being so fine as the theatre in Fishamble Street, Dublin, nor was French music at all equal, in her opinion, to the melodies of her native country. She favoured her friends with these and other opinions in a very loud tone of voice, and tossed about a great clattering fan she sported, with the most splendid complacency.

“Who is that wonderful woman with Amelia, Rawdon, love?” said a lady in an opposite box (who, almost always civil to her husband in private, was more fond than ever of him in company).

“Don’t you see that creature with a yellow thing in her turban, and a red satin gown, and a great watch?”

“Near the pretty little woman in white?” asked a middle-aged gentleman seated by the querist’s side, with orders in his button, and several under-waistcoats, and a great, choky, white stock.

“That pretty woman in white is Amelia, General: you are remarking all the pretty women, you naughty man.”

“Only one, begad, in the world!” said the General, delighted, and the lady gave him a tap with a large bouquet which she had.

“Bedad it’s him,” said Mrs. O’Dowd; “and that’s the very bokay he bought in the Marshy aux Flures!” and when Rebecca, having caught her friend’s eye, performed the little hand-kissing operation once more, Mrs. Major O’D., taking the compliment to herself, returned the salute with a gracious smile, which sent that unfortunate Dobbin shrieking out of the box again.

At the end of the act, George was out of the box in a moment, and he was even going to pay his respects to Rebecca in her loge. He met Crawley in the lobby, however, where they exchanged a few sentences upon the occurrences of the last fortnight.

“You found my cheque all right at the agent’s?” George said, with a knowing air.

“All right, my boy,” Rawdon answered. “Happy to give you your revenge. Governor come round?”

“Not yet,” said George, “but he will; and you know I’ve some private fortune through my mother. Has Aunty relented?”

“Sent me twenty pound, damned old screw. When shall we have a meet? The General dines out on Tuesday. Can’t you come Tuesday? I say, make Sedley cut off his moustache. What the devil does a civilian mean with a moustache and those infernal frogs to his coat! By-bye. Try and come on Tuesday”; and Rawdon was going-off with two brilliant young gentlemen of fashion, who were, like himself, on the staff of a general officer.

George was only half pleased to be asked to dinner on that particular day when the General was not to dine. “I will go in and pay my respects to your wife,” said he; at which Rawdon said, “Hm, as you please,” looking very glum, and at which the two young officers exchanged knowing glances. George parted from them and strutted down the lobby to the General’s box, the number of which he had carefully counted.

“Entrez,” said a clear little voice, and our friend found himself in Rebecca’s presence; who jumped up, clapped her hands together, and held out both of them to George, so charmed was she to see him. The General, with the orders in his button, stared at the newcomer with a sulky scowl, as much as to say, who the devil are you?

“My dear Captain George!” cried little Rebecca in an ecstasy. “How good of you to come. The General and I were moping together tête-à-tête. General, this is my Captain George of whom you heard me talk.”

“Indeed,” said the General, with a very small bow; “of what regiment is Captain George?”

George mentioned the —th: how he wished he could have said it was a crack cavalry corps.

“Come home lately from the West Indies, I believe. Not seen much service in the late war. Quartered here, Captain George?”⁠—the General went on with killing haughtiness.

“Not Captain George, you stupid man; Captain Osborne,” Rebecca said. The General all the while was looking savagely from one to the other.

“Captain Osborne, indeed! Any relation to the L⁠⸺ Osbornes?”

“We bear the same arms,” George said, as indeed was the fact; Mr. Osborne having consulted with a herald in Long Acre, and picked the L⁠⸺ arms out of the peerage, when he set up his carriage fifteen years before. The General made no reply to this announcement; but took up his opera-glass⁠—the double-barrelled lorgnon was not invented in those days⁠—and pretended to examine the house; but Rebecca saw that his disengaged eye was working round in her direction, and shooting out bloodshot glances at her and George.

She redoubled in cordiality. “How is dearest Amelia? But I needn’t ask: how pretty she looks! And who is that nice good-natured looking creature with her⁠—a flame of yours? O, you wicked men! And there is Mr. Sedley eating ice, I declare: how he seems to enjoy it! General, why have we not had any ices?”

“Shall I go and fetch you some?” said the General, bursting with wrath.

“Let me go, I