they had maintained all day, and spite of all:
unscared by the thunder of the artillery, which hurled
death from the English line—the dark rolling
column pressed on and up the hill. It seemed
almost to crest the eminence, when it began to wave
and falter. Then it stopped, still facing the
shot. Then at last the English troops rushed
from the post from which no enemy had been able to
dislodge them, and the Guard turned and fled.
No more firing was heard at Brussels—the
pursuit rolled miles away. Darkness came down
on the field and city: and Amelia was praying
for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a
bullet through his heart.
In Which Miss Crawley’s Relations Are Very Anxious
About Her
The kind reader must please to remember—while
the army is marching from Flanders, and, after its
heroic actions there, is advancing to take the fortifications
on the frontiers of France, previous to an occupation
of that country—that there are a number
of persons living peaceably in England who have to
do with the history at present in hand, and must come
in for their share of the chronicle. During the
time of these battles and dangers, old Miss Crawley
was living at Brighton, very moderately moved by the
great events that were going on. The great events
rendered the newspapers rather interesting, to be
sure, and Briggs read out the Gazette, in which Rawdon
Crawley’s gallantry was mentioned with honour,
and his promotion was presently recorded.
“What a pity that young man has taken such an
irretrievable step in the world!” his aunt said;
“with his rank and distinction he might have
married a brewer’s daughter with a quarter of
a million—like Miss Grains; or have looked
to ally himself with the best families in England.
He would have had my money some day or other; or his
children would—for I’m not in a hurry
to go, Miss Briggs, although you may be in a hurry
to be rid of me; and instead of that, he is a doomed
pauper, with a dancing-girl for a wife.”
“Will my dear Miss Crawley not cast an eye of
compassion upon the heroic soldier, whose name is
inscribed in the annals of his country’s glory?”
said Miss Briggs, who was greatly excited by the Waterloo
proceedings, and loved speaking romantically when there
was an occasion. “Has not the Captain—or
the Colonel as I may now style him—done
deeds which make the name of Crawley illustrious?”
“Briggs, you are a fool,” said Miss Crawley:
“Colonel Crawley has dragged the name of Crawley
through the mud, Miss Briggs. Marry a drawing-master’s
daughter, indeed!—marry a dame de compagnie—for
she was no better, Briggs; no, she was just what you
are—only younger, and a great deal prettier
and cleverer. Were you an accomplice of that
abandoned wretch, I wonder, of whose vile arts he
became a victim, and of whom you used to be such an
admirer? Yes, I daresay you were an accomplice.
