Whenever old John Sedley thought of the affair between George and
Amelia, or alluded to it, it was with bitterness almost as great as Mr.
Osborne himself had shown. He cursed Osborne and his family as
heartless, wicked, and ungrateful. No power on earth, he swore, would
induce him to marry his daughter to the son of such a villain, and he
ordered Emmy to banish George from her mind, and to return all the
presents and letters which she had ever had from him.
She promised acquiescence, and tried to obey. She put up the two or
three trinkets: and, as for the letters, she drew them out of the place
where she kept them; and read them over--as if she did not know them by
heart already: but she could not part with them. That effort was too
much for her; she placed them back in her bosom again--as you have seen
a woman nurse a child that is dead. Young Amelia felt that she would
die or lose her senses outright, if torn away from this last
consolation. How she used to blush and lighten up when those letters
came! How she used to trip away with a beating heart, so that she
might read unseen! If they were cold, yet how perversely this fond
little soul interpreted them into warmth. If they were short or
selfish, what excuses she found for the writer!
It was over these few worthless papers that she brooded and brooded.
She lived in her past life--every letter seemed to recall some
circumstance of it. How well she remembered them all! His looks and
tones, his dress, what he said and how--these relics and remembrances
of dead affection were all that were left her in the world. And the
business of her life, was--to watch the corpse of Love.
To death she looked with inexpressible longing. Then, she thought, I
shall always be able to follow him. I am not praising her conduct or
setting her up as a model for Miss Bullock to imitate. Miss B. knows
how to regulate her feelings better than this poor little creature.
Miss B. would never have committed herself as that imprudent Amelia had
done; pledged her love irretrievably; confessed her heart away, and got
back nothing--only a brittle promise which was snapt and worthless in a
moment. A long engagement is a partnership which one party is free to
keep or to break, but which involves all the capital of the other.
Be cautious then, young ladies; be wary how you engage. Be shy of
loving frankly; never tell all you feel, or (a better way still), feel
very little. See the consequences of being prematurely honest and
confiding, and mistrust yourselves and everybody. Get yourselves
married as they do in France, where the lawyers are the bridesmaids and
confidantes. At any rate, never have any feelings which may make you
uncomfortable, or make any promises which you cannot at any required
moment command and withdraw. That is the way to get on, and be
respected, and have a virtuous character in Vanity Fair.