George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his wife up on his

return from the parties which he frequented: so she went straight to

bed now; but although she did not sleep, and although the din and

clatter, and the galloping of horsemen were incessant, she never heard

any of these noises, having quite other disturbances to keep her awake.

Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a play-table, and

began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Everything succeeds with

me to-night," he said. But his luck at play even did not cure him of

his restlessness, and he started up after awhile, pocketing his

winnings, and went to a buffet, where he drank off many bumpers of wine.

Here, as he was rattling away to the people around, laughing loudly and

wild with spirits, Dobbin found him. He had been to the card-tables to

look there for his friend. Dobbin looked as pale and grave as his

comrade was flushed and jovial.

"Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The Duke's wine is famous. Give

me some more, you sir"; and he held out a trembling glass for the

liquor.

"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely; "don't drink."

"Drink! there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and light up your

lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you."

Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at which George, giving

a start and a wild hurray, tossed off his glass, clapped it on the

table, and walked away speedily on his friend's arm. "The enemy has

passed the Sambre," William said, "and our left is already engaged.

Come away. We are to march in three hours."

Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at the news so

long looked for, so sudden when it came. What were love and intrigue

now? He thought about a thousand things but these in his rapid walk to

his quarters--his past life and future chances--the fate which might be

before him--the wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might be

about to part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone! and that

with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the tender

and guileless being by whose love he had set such little store!

He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks he had

frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and reckless he

had been! Should any mischance befall him: what was then left for

her? How unworthy he was of her. Why had he married her? He was not

fit for marriage. Why had he disobeyed his father, who had been always

so generous to him? Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish

regret filled his heart. He sate down and wrote to his father,

remembering what he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight

a duel. Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell

letter. He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how he

had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kindnesses which

the stern old man had done him.




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