CHAPTER XIV

Miss Crawley at Home

About this time there drove up to an exceedingly snug and

well-appointed house in Park Lane, a travelling chariot with a lozenge on

the panels, a discontented female in a green veil and crimped curls on

the rumble, and a large and confidential man on the box. It was the

equipage of our friend Miss Crawley, returning from Hants. The

carriage windows were shut; the fat spaniel, whose head and tongue

ordinarily lolled out of one of them, reposed on the lap of the

discontented female. When the vehicle stopped, a large round bundle of

shawls was taken out of the carriage by the aid of various domestics

and a young lady who accompanied the heap of cloaks. That bundle

contained Miss Crawley, who was conveyed upstairs forthwith, and put

into a bed and chamber warmed properly as for the reception of an

invalid. Messengers went off for her physician and medical man. They

came, consulted, prescribed, vanished. The young companion of Miss

Crawley, at the conclusion of their interview, came in to receive their

instructions, and administered those antiphlogistic medicines which the

eminent men ordered.

Captain Crawley of the Life Guards rode up from Knightsbridge Barracks

the next day; his black charger pawed the straw before his invalid

aunt's door. He was most affectionate in his inquiries regarding that

amiable relative. There seemed to be much source of apprehension. He

found Miss Crawley's maid (the discontented female) unusually sulky and

despondent; he found Miss Briggs, her dame de compagnie, in tears alone

in the drawing-room. She had hastened home, hearing of her beloved

friend's illness. She wished to fly to her couch, that couch which

she, Briggs, had so often smoothed in the hour of sickness. She was

denied admission to Miss Crawley's apartment. A stranger was

administering her medicines--a stranger from the country--an odious

Miss ... --tears choked the utterance of the dame de compagnie, and

she buried her crushed affections and her poor old red nose in her

pocket handkerchief.

Rawdon Crawley sent up his name by the sulky femme de chambre, and Miss

Crawley's new companion, coming tripping down from the sick-room, put

a little hand into his as he stepped forward eagerly to meet her, gave

a glance of great scorn at the bewildered Briggs, and beckoning the

young Guardsman out of the back drawing-room, led him downstairs into

that now desolate dining-parlour, where so many a good dinner had been

celebrated.

Here these two talked for ten minutes, discussing, no doubt, the

symptoms of the old invalid above stairs; at the end of which period

the parlour bell was rung briskly, and answered on that instant by Mr.

Bowls, Miss Crawley's large confidential butler (who, indeed, happened

to be at the keyhole during the most part of the interview); and the

Captain coming out, curling his mustachios, mounted the black charger

pawing among the straw, to the admiration of the little blackguard boys

collected in the street. He looked in at the dining-room window,

managing his horse, which curvetted and capered beautifully--for one

instant the young person might be seen at the window, when her figure

vanished, and, doubtless, she went upstairs again to resume the

affecting duties of benevolence.

Who could this young woman be, I wonder? That evening a little dinner

for two persons was laid in the dining-room--when Mrs. Firkin, the

lady's maid, pushed into her mistress's apartment, and bustled about

there during the vacancy occasioned by the departure of the new

nurse--and the latter and Miss Briggs sat down to the neat little meal.

Briggs was so much choked by emotion that she could hardly take a

morsel of meat. The young person carved a fowl with the utmost

delicacy, and asked so distinctly for egg-sauce, that poor Briggs,

before whom that delicious condiment was placed, started, made a great

clattering with the ladle, and once more fell back in the most gushing

hysterical state.

"Had you not better give Miss Briggs a glass of wine?" said the person

to Mr. Bowls, the large confidential man. He did so. Briggs seized it

mechanically, gasped it down convulsively, moaned a little, and began

to play with the chicken on her plate.

"I think we shall be able to help each other," said the person with

great suavity: "and shall have no need of Mr. Bowls's kind services.

Mr. Bowls, if you please, we will ring when we want you." He went

downstairs, where, by the way, he vented the most horrid curses upon

the unoffending footman, his subordinate.

"It is a pity you take on so, Miss Briggs," the young lady said, with a

cool, slightly sarcastic, air.

"My dearest friend is so ill, and wo-o-on't see me," gurgled out Briggs

in an agony of renewed grief.

"She's not very ill any more. Console yourself, dear Miss Briggs. She

has only overeaten herself--that is all. She is greatly better. She

will soon be quite restored again. She is weak from being cupped and

from medical treatment, but she will rally immediately. Pray console

yourself, and take a little more wine."

"But why, why won't she see me again?" Miss Briggs bleated out. "Oh,

Matilda, Matilda, after three-and-twenty years' tenderness! is this the

return to your poor, poor Arabella?"

"Don't cry too much, poor Arabella," the other said (with ever so

little of a grin); "she only won't see you, because she says you don't

nurse her as well as I do. It's no pleasure to me to sit up all night.

I wish you might do it instead."

"Have I not tended that dear couch for years?" Arabella said, "and

now--"

"Now she prefers somebody else. Well, sick people have these fancies,

and must be humoured. When she's well I shall go."

"Never, never," Arabella exclaimed, madly inhaling her salts-bottle.

"Never be well or never go, Miss Briggs?" the other said, with the same

provoking good-nature. "Pooh--she will be well in a fortnight, when I

shall go back to my little pupils at Queen's Crawley, and to their

mother, who is a great deal more sick than our friend. You need not be

jealous about me, my dear Miss Briggs. I am a poor little girl without

any friends, or any harm in me. I don't want to supplant you in Miss

Crawley's good graces. She will forget me a week after I am gone: and

her affection for you has been the work of years. Give me a little

wine if you please, my dear Miss Briggs, and let us be friends. I'm

sure I want friends."

The placable and soft-hearted Briggs speechlessly pushed out her hand

at this appeal; but she felt the desertion most keenly for all that,

and bitterly, bitterly moaned the fickleness of her Matilda. At the end

of half an hour, the meal over, Miss Rebecca Sharp (for such,

astonishing to state, is the name of her who has been described

ingeniously as "the person" hitherto), went upstairs again to her

patient's rooms, from which, with the most engaging politeness, she

eliminated poor Firkin. "Thank you, Mrs. Firkin, that will quite do;

how nicely you make it! I will ring when anything is wanted." "Thank

you"; and Firkin came downstairs in a tempest of jealousy, only the

more dangerous because she was forced to confine it in her own bosom.

Could it be the tempest which, as she passed the landing of the first

floor, blew open the drawing-room door? No; it was stealthily opened by

the hand of Briggs. Briggs had been on the watch. Briggs too well heard

the creaking Firkin descend the stairs, and the clink of the spoon and

gruel-basin the neglected female carried.

"Well, Firkin?" says she, as the other entered the apartment. "Well,

Jane?"

"Wuss and wuss, Miss B.," Firkin said, wagging her head.

"Is she not better then?"

"She never spoke but once, and I asked her if she felt a little more

easy, and she told me to hold my stupid tongue. Oh, Miss B., I never

thought to have seen this day!" And the water-works again began to

play.

"What sort of a person is this Miss Sharp, Firkin? I little thought,

while enjoying my Christmas revels in the elegant home of my firm

friends, the Reverend Lionel Delamere and his amiable lady, to find a

stranger had taken my place in the affections of my dearest, my still

dearest Matilda!" Miss Briggs, it will be seen by her language, was of

a literary and sentimental turn, and had once published a volume of

poems--"Trills of the Nightingale"--by subscription.

"Miss B., they are all infatyated about that young woman," Firkin

replied. "Sir Pitt wouldn't have let her go, but he daredn't refuse

Miss Crawley anything. Mrs. Bute at the Rectory jist as bad--never

happy out of her sight. The Capting quite wild about her. Mr. Crawley

mortial jealous. Since Miss C. was took ill, she won't have nobody near

her but Miss Sharp, I can't tell for where nor for why; and I think

somethink has bewidged everybody."

Rebecca passed that night in constant watching upon Miss Crawley; the

next night the old lady slept so comfortably, that Rebecca had time for

several hours' comfortable repose herself on the sofa, at the foot of

her patroness's bed; very soon, Miss Crawley was so well that she sat

up and laughed heartily at a perfect imitation of Miss Briggs and her

grief, which Rebecca described to her. Briggs' weeping snuffle, and her

manner of using the handkerchief, were so completely rendered that Miss

Crawley became quite cheerful, to the admiration of the doctors when

they visited her, who usually found this worthy woman of the world,

when the least sickness attacked her, under the most abject depression

and terror of death.

Captain Crawley came every day, and received bulletins from Miss

Rebecca respecting his aunt's health. This improved so rapidly, that

poor Briggs was allowed to see her patroness; and persons with tender

hearts may imagine the smothered emotions of that sentimental female,

and the affecting nature of the interview.

Miss Crawley liked to have Briggs in a good deal soon. Rebecca used to

mimic her to her face with the most admirable gravity, thereby

rendering the imitation doubly piquant to her worthy patroness.

The causes which had led to the deplorable illness of Miss Crawley, and

her departure from her brother's house in the country, were of such an

unromantic nature that they are hardly fit to be explained in this

genteel and sentimental novel. For how is it possible to hint of a

delicate female, living in good society, that she ate and drank too

much, and that a hot supper of lobsters profusely enjoyed at the

Rectory was the reason of an indisposition which Miss Crawley herself

persisted was solely attributable to the dampness of the weather? The

attack was so sharp that Matilda--as his Reverence expressed it--was

very nearly "off the hooks"; all the family were in a fever of

expectation regarding the will, and Rawdon Crawley was making sure of

at least forty thousand pounds before the commencement of the London

season. Mr. Crawley sent over a choice parcel of tracts, to prepare

her for the change from Vanity Fair and Park Lane for another world;

but a good doctor from Southampton being called in in time, vanquished

the lobster which was so nearly fatal to her, and gave her sufficient

strength to enable her to return to London. The Baronet did not

disguise his exceeding mortification at the turn which affairs took.

While everybody was attending on Miss Crawley, and messengers every

hour from the Rectory were carrying news of her health to the

affectionate folks there, there was a lady in another part of the

house, being exceedingly ill, of whom no one took any notice at all;

and this was the lady of Crawley herself. The good doctor shook his

head after seeing her; to which visit Sir Pitt consented, as it could

be paid without a fee; and she was left fading away in her lonely

chamber, with no more heed paid to her than to a weed in the park.

The young ladies, too, lost much of the inestimable benefit of their

governess's instruction, So affectionate a nurse was Miss Sharp, that

Miss Crawley would take her medicines from no other hand. Firkin had

been deposed long before her mistress's departure from the country.

That faithful attendant found a gloomy consolation on returning to

London, in seeing Miss Briggs suffer the same pangs of jealousy and

undergo the same faithless treatment to which she herself had been

subject.

Captain Rawdon got an extension of leave on his aunt's illness, and

remained dutifully at home. He was always in her antechamber. (She

lay sick in the state bedroom, into which you entered by the little

blue saloon.) His father was always meeting him there; or if he came

down the corridor ever so quietly, his father's door was sure to open,

and the hyena face of the old gentleman to glare out. What was it set

one to watch the other so? A generous rivalry, no doubt, as to which

should be most attentive to the dear sufferer in the state bedroom.

Rebecca used to come out and comfort both of them; or one or the other

of them rather. Both of these worthy gentlemen were most anxious to

have news of the invalid from her little confidential messenger.

At dinner--to which meal she descended for half an hour--she kept the

peace between them: after which she disappeared for the night; when

Rawdon would ride over to the depot of the 150th at Mudbury, leaving

his papa to the society of Mr. Horrocks and his rum and water. She

passed as weary a fortnight as ever mortal spent in Miss Crawley's

sick-room; but her little nerves seemed to be of iron, as she was quite

unshaken by the duty and the tedium of the sick-chamber.

She never told until long afterwards how painful that duty was; how

peevish a patient was the jovial old lady; how angry; how sleepless; in

what horrors of death; during what long nights she lay moaning, and in

almost delirious agonies respecting that future world which she quite

ignored when she was in good health.--Picture to yourself, oh fair

young reader, a worldly, selfish, graceless, thankless, religionless

old woman, writhing in pain and fear, and without her wig. Picture her

to yourself, and ere you be old, learn to love and pray!

Sharp watched this graceless bedside with indomitable patience. Nothing

escaped her; and, like a prudent steward, she found a use for

everything. She told many a good story about Miss Crawley's illness in

after days--stories which made the lady blush through her artificial

carnations. During the illness she was never out of temper; always

alert; she slept light, having a perfectly clear conscience; and could

take that refreshment at almost any minute's warning. And so you saw

very few traces of fatigue in her appearance. Her face might be a

trifle paler, and the circles round her eyes a little blacker than

usual; but whenever she came out from the sick-room she was always

smiling, fresh, and neat, and looked as trim in her little

dressing-gown and cap, as in her smartest evening suit.

The Captain thought so, and raved about her in uncouth convulsions. The

barbed shaft of love had penetrated his dull hide. Six

weeks--appropinquity--opportunity--had victimised him completely. He

made a confidante of his aunt at the Rectory, of all persons in the

world. She rallied him about it; she had perceived his folly; she

warned him; she finished by owning that little Sharp was the most clever,

droll, odd, good-natured, simple, kindly creature in England. Rawdon

must not trifle with her affections, though--dear Miss Crawley would

never pardon him for that; for she, too, was quite overcome by the little

governess, and loved Sharp like a daughter. Rawdon must go away--go

back to his regiment and naughty London, and not play with a poor

artless girl's feelings.

Many and many a time this good-natured lady, compassionating the

forlorn life-guardsman's condition, gave him an opportunity of seeing

Miss Sharp at the Rectory, and of walking home with her, as we have

seen. When men of a certain sort, ladies, are in love, though they see

the hook and the string, and the whole apparatus with which they are to

be taken, they gorge the bait nevertheless--they must come to it--they

must swallow it--and are presently struck and landed gasping. Rawdon

saw there was a manifest intention on Mrs. Bute's part to captivate him

with Rebecca. He was not very wise; but he was a man about town, and

had seen several seasons. A light dawned upon his dusky soul, as he

thought, through a speech of Mrs. Bute's.

"Mark my words, Rawdon," she said. "You will have Miss Sharp one day

for your relation."

"What relation--my cousin, hey, Mrs. Bute? James sweet on her, hey?"

inquired the waggish officer.

"More than that," Mrs. Bute said, with a flash from her black eyes.

"Not Pitt? He sha'n't have her. The sneak a'n't worthy of her. He's

booked to Lady Jane Sheepshanks."

"You men perceive nothing. You silly, blind creature--if anything

happens to Lady Crawley, Miss Sharp will be your mother-in-law; and

that's what will happen."

Rawdon Crawley, Esquire, gave vent to a prodigious whistle, in token of

astonishment at this announcement. He couldn't deny it. His father's

evident liking for Miss Sharp had not escaped him. He knew the old

gentleman's character well; and a more unscrupulous old--whyou--he did

not conclude the sentence, but walked home, curling his mustachios, and

convinced he had found a clue to Mrs. Bute's mystery.

"By Jove, it's too bad," thought Rawdon, "too bad, by Jove! I do

believe the woman wants the poor girl to be ruined, in order that she

shouldn't come into the family as Lady Crawley."

When he saw Rebecca alone, he rallied her about his father's attachment

in his graceful way. She flung up her head scornfully, looked him full

in the face, and said,

"Well, suppose he is fond of me. I know he is, and others too. You

don't think I am afraid of him, Captain Crawley? You don't suppose I

can't defend my own honour," said the little woman, looking as stately

as a queen.

"Oh, ah, why--give you fair warning--look out, you know--that's all,"

said the mustachio-twiddler.

"You hint at something not honourable, then?" said she, flashing out.

"O Gad--really--Miss Rebecca," the heavy dragoon interposed.

"Do you suppose I have no feeling of self-respect, because I am poor

and friendless, and because rich people have none? Do you think,

because I am a governess, I have not as much sense, and feeling, and

good breeding as you gentlefolks in Hampshire? I'm a Montmorency. Do

you suppose a Montmorency is not as good as a Crawley?"

When Miss Sharp was agitated, and alluded to her maternal relatives,

she spoke with ever so slight a foreign accent, which gave a great

charm to her clear ringing voice. "No," she continued, kindling as she

spoke to the Captain; "I can endure poverty, but not shame--neglect,

but not insult; and insult from--from you."

Her feelings gave way, and she burst into tears.

"Hang it, Miss Sharp--Rebecca--by Jove--upon my soul, I wouldn't for a

thousand pounds. Stop, Rebecca!"

She was gone. She drove out with Miss Crawley that day. It was before

the latter's illness. At dinner she was unusually brilliant and

lively; but she would take no notice of the hints, or the nods, or the

clumsy expostulations of the humiliated, infatuated guardsman.

Skirmishes of this sort passed perpetually during the little

campaign--tedious to relate, and similar in result. The Crawley heavy

cavalry was maddened by defeat, and routed every day.

If the Baronet of Queen's Crawley had not had the fear of losing his

sister's legacy before his eyes, he never would have permitted his dear

girls to lose the educational blessings which their invaluable

governess was conferring upon them. The old house at home seemed a

desert without her, so useful and pleasant had Rebecca made herself

there. Sir Pitt's letters were not copied and corrected; his books not

made up; his household business and manifold schemes neglected, now

that his little secretary was away. And it was easy to see how

necessary such an amanuensis was to him, by the tenor and spelling of

the numerous letters which he sent to her, entreating her and

commanding her to return. Almost every day brought a frank from the

Baronet, enclosing the most urgent prayers to Becky for her return, or

conveying pathetic statements to Miss Crawley, regarding the neglected

state of his daughters' education; of which documents Miss Crawley took

very little heed.

Miss Briggs was not formally dismissed, but her place as companion was

a sinecure and a derision; and her company was the fat spaniel in the

drawing-room, or occasionally the discontented Firkin in the

housekeeper's closet. Nor though the old lady would by no means hear

of Rebecca's departure, was the latter regularly installed in office in

Park Lane. Like many wealthy people, it was Miss Crawley's habit to

accept as much service as she could get from her inferiors; and

good-naturedly to take leave of them when she no longer found them

useful. Gratitude among certain rich folks is scarcely natural or to

be thought of. They take needy people's services as their due. Nor

have you, O poor parasite and humble hanger-on, much reason to

complain! Your friendship for Dives is about as sincere as the return

which it usually gets. It is money you love, and not the man; and were

Croesus and his footman to change places you know, you poor rogue, who

would have the benefit of your allegiance.

And I am not sure that, in spite of Rebecca's simplicity and activity,

and gentleness and untiring good humour, the shrewd old London lady,

upon whom these treasures of friendship were lavished, had not a

lurking suspicion all the while of her affectionate nurse and friend.

It must have often crossed Miss Crawley's mind that nobody does

anything for nothing. If she measured her own feeling towards the

world, she must have been pretty well able to gauge those of the world

towards herself; and perhaps she reflected that it is the ordinary lot

of people to have no friends if they themselves care for nobody.

Well, meanwhile Becky was the greatest comfort and convenience to her,

and she gave her a couple of new gowns, and an old necklace and shawl,

and showed her friendship by abusing all her intimate acquaintances to

her new confidante (than which there can't be a more touching proof of

regard), and meditated vaguely some great future benefit--to marry her

perhaps to Clump, the apothecary, or to settle her in some advantageous

way of life; or at any rate, to send her back to Queen's Crawley when

she had done with her, and the full London season had begun.

When Miss Crawley was convalescent and descended to the drawing-room,

Becky sang to her, and otherwise amused her; when she was well enough

to drive out, Becky accompanied her. And amongst the drives which they

took, whither, of all places in the world, did Miss Crawley's admirable

good-nature and friendship actually induce her to penetrate, but to

Russell Square, Bloomsbury, and the house of John Sedley, Esquire.

Ere that event, many notes had passed, as may be imagined, between the

two dear friends. During the months of Rebecca's stay in Hampshire,

the eternal friendship had (must it be owned?) suffered considerable

diminution, and grown so decrepit and feeble with old age as to

threaten demise altogether. The fact is, both girls had their own real

affairs to think of: Rebecca her advance with her employers--Amelia her

own absorbing topic. When the two girls met, and flew into each

other's arms with that impetuosity which distinguishes the behaviour of

young ladies towards each other, Rebecca performed her part of the

embrace with the most perfect briskness and energy. Poor little Amelia

blushed as she kissed her friend, and thought she had been guilty of

something very like coldness towards her.

Their first interview was but a very short one. Amelia was just ready

to go out for a walk. Miss Crawley was waiting in her carriage below,

her people wondering at the locality in which they found themselves,

and gazing upon honest Sambo, the black footman of Bloomsbury, as one

of the queer natives of the place. But when Amelia came down with her

kind smiling looks (Rebecca must introduce her to her friend, Miss

Crawley was longing to see her, and was too ill to leave her

carriage)--when, I say, Amelia came down, the Park Lane shoulder-knot

aristocracy wondered more and more that such a thing could come out of

Bloomsbury; and Miss Crawley was fairly captivated by the sweet

blushing face of the young lady who came forward so timidly and so

gracefully to pay her respects to the protector of her friend.

"What a complexion, my dear! What a sweet voice!" Miss Crawley said, as

they drove away westward after the little interview. "My dear Sharp,

your young friend is charming. Send for her to Park Lane, do you

hear?" Miss Crawley had a good taste. She liked natural manners--a

little timidity only set them off. She liked pretty faces near her; as

she liked pretty pictures and nice china. She talked of Amelia with

rapture half a dozen times that day. She mentioned her to Rawdon

Crawley, who came dutifully to partake of his aunt's chicken.

Of course, on this Rebecca instantly stated that Amelia was engaged to

be married--to a Lieutenant Osborne--a very old flame.

"Is he a man in a line-regiment?" Captain Crawley asked, remembering

after an effort, as became a guardsman, the number of the regiment,

the --th.

Rebecca thought that was the regiment. "The Captain's name," she said,

"was Captain Dobbin."

"A lanky gawky fellow," said Crawley, "tumbles over everybody. I know

him; and Osborne's a goodish-looking fellow, with large black whiskers?"

"Enormous," Miss Rebecca Sharp said, "and enormously proud of them, I

assure you."

Captain Rawdon Crawley burst into a horse-laugh by way of reply; and

being pressed by the ladies to explain, did so when the explosion of

hilarity was over. "He fancies he can play at billiards," said he. "I

won two hundred of him at the Cocoa-Tree. HE play, the young flat!

He'd have played for anything that day, but his friend Captain Dobbin

carried him off, hang him!"

"Rawdon, Rawdon, don't be so wicked," Miss Crawley remarked, highly

pleased.

"Why, ma'am, of all the young fellows I've seen out of the line, I

think this fellow's the greenest. Tarquin and Deuceace get what money

they like out of him. He'd go to the deuce to be seen with a lord. He

pays their dinners at Greenwich, and they invite the company."

"And very pretty company too, I dare say."

"Quite right, Miss Sharp. Right, as usual, Miss Sharp. Uncommon pretty

company--haw, haw!" and the Captain laughed more and more, thinking he

had made a good joke.

"Rawdon, don't be naughty!" his aunt exclaimed.

"Well, his father's a City man--immensely rich, they say. Hang those

City fellows, they must bleed; and I've not done with him yet, I can

tell you. Haw, haw!"

"Fie, Captain Crawley; I shall warn Amelia. A gambling husband!"

"Horrid, ain't he, hey?" the Captain said with great solemnity; and

then added, a sudden thought having struck him: "Gad, I say, ma'am,

we'll have him here."

"Is he a presentable sort of a person?" the aunt inquired.

"Presentable?--oh, very well. You wouldn't see any difference,"

Captain Crawley answered. "Do let's have him, when you begin to see a

few people; and his whatdyecallem--his inamorato--eh, Miss Sharp;

that's what you call it--comes. Gad, I'll write him a note, and have

him; and I'll try if he can play piquet as well as billiards. Where

does he live, Miss Sharp?"

Miss Sharp told Crawley the Lieutenant's town address; and a few days

after this conversation, Lieutenant Osborne received a letter, in

Captain Rawdon's schoolboy hand, and enclosing a note of invitation

from Miss Crawley.

Rebecca despatched also an invitation to her darling Amelia, who, you

may be sure, was ready enough to accept it when she heard that George

was to be of the party. It was arranged that Amelia was to spend the

morning with the ladies of Park Lane, where all were very kind to her.

Rebecca patronised her with calm superiority: she was so much the

cleverer of the two, and her friend so gentle and unassuming, that she

always yielded when anybody chose to command, and so took Rebecca's

orders with perfect meekness and good humour. Miss Crawley's

graciousness was also remarkable. She continued her raptures about

little Amelia, talked about her before her face as if she were a doll,

or a servant, or a picture, and admired her with the most benevolent

wonder possible. I admire that admiration which the genteel world

sometimes extends to the commonalty. There is no more agreeable object

in life than to see Mayfair folks condescending. Miss Crawley's

prodigious benevolence rather fatigued poor little Amelia, and I am not

sure that of the three ladies in Park Lane she did not find honest Miss

Briggs the most agreeable. She sympathised with Briggs as with all

neglected or gentle people: she wasn't what you call a woman of spirit.

George came to dinner--a repast en garcon with Captain Crawley.

The great family coach of the Osbornes transported him to Park Lane

from Russell Square; where the young ladies, who were not themselves

invited, and professed the greatest indifference at that slight,

nevertheless looked at Sir Pitt Crawley's name in the baronetage; and

learned everything which that work had to teach about the Crawley

family and their pedigree, and the Binkies, their relatives, &c., &c.

Rawdon Crawley received George Osborne with great frankness and

graciousness: praised his play at billiards: asked him when he would

have his revenge: was interested about Osborne's regiment: and would

have proposed piquet to him that very evening, but Miss Crawley

absolutely forbade any gambling in her house; so that the young

Lieutenant's purse was not lightened by his gallant patron, for that

day at least. However, they made an engagement for the next,

somewhere: to look at a horse that Crawley had to sell, and to try him

in the Park; and to dine together, and to pass the evening with some

jolly fellows. "That is, if you're not on duty to that pretty Miss

Sedley," Crawley said, with a knowing wink. "Monstrous nice girl, 'pon

my honour, though, Osborne," he was good enough to add. "Lots of tin,

I suppose, eh?"

Osborne wasn't on duty; he would join Crawley with pleasure: and the

latter, when they met the next day, praised his new friend's

horsemanship--as he might with perfect honesty--and introduced him to

three or four young men of the first fashion, whose acquaintance

immensely elated the simple young officer.

"How's little Miss Sharp, by-the-bye?" Osborne inquired of his friend

over their wine, with a dandified air. "Good-natured little girl that.

Does she suit you well at Queen's Crawley? Miss Sedley liked her a good

deal last year."

Captain Crawley looked savagely at the Lieutenant out of his little

blue eyes, and watched him when he went up to resume his acquaintance

with the fair governess. Her conduct must have relieved Crawley if

there was any jealousy in the bosom of that life-guardsman.

When the young men went upstairs, and after Osborne's introduction to

Miss Crawley, he walked up to Rebecca with a patronising, easy swagger.

He was going to be kind to her and protect her. He would even shake

hands with her, as a friend of Amelia's; and saying, "Ah, Miss Sharp!

how-dy-doo?" held out his left hand towards her, expecting that she

would be quite confounded at the honour.

Miss Sharp put out her right forefinger, and gave him a little nod, so

cool and killing, that Rawdon Crawley, watching the operations from the

other room, could hardly restrain his laughter as he saw the

Lieutenant's entire discomfiture; the start he gave, the pause, and the

perfect clumsiness with which he at length condescended to take the

finger which was offered for his embrace.

"She'd beat the devil, by Jove!" the Captain said, in a rapture; and

the Lieutenant, by way of beginning the conversation, agreeably asked

Rebecca how she liked her new place.

"My place?" said Miss Sharp, coolly, "how kind of you to remind me of

it! It's a tolerably good place: the wages are pretty good--not so

good as Miss Wirt's, I believe, with your sisters in Russell Square.

How are those young ladies?--not that I ought to ask."

"Why not?" Mr. Osborne said, amazed.

"Why, they never condescended to speak to me, or to ask me into their

house, whilst I was staying with Amelia; but we poor governesses, you

know, are used to slights of this sort."

"My dear Miss Sharp!" Osborne ejaculated.

"At least in some families," Rebecca continued. "You can't think what

a difference there is though. We are not so wealthy in Hampshire as

you lucky folks of the City. But then I am in a gentleman's

family--good old English stock. I suppose you know Sir Pitt's father

refused a peerage. And you see how I am treated. I am pretty

comfortable. Indeed it is rather a good place. But how very good of

you to inquire!"

Osborne was quite savage. The little governess patronised him and

persiffled him until this young British Lion felt quite uneasy; nor

could he muster sufficient presence of mind to find a pretext for

backing out of this most delectable conversation.

"I thought you liked the City families pretty well," he said, haughtily.

"Last year you mean, when I was fresh from that horrid vulgar school?

Of course I did. Doesn't every girl like to come home for the

holidays? And how was I to know any better? But oh, Mr. Osborne, what

a difference eighteen months' experience makes! eighteen months spent,

pardon me for saying so, with gentlemen. As for dear Amelia, she, I

grant you, is a pearl, and would be charming anywhere. There now, I

see you are beginning to be in a good humour; but oh these queer odd

City people! And Mr. Jos--how is that wonderful Mr. Joseph?"

"It seems to me you didn't dislike that wonderful Mr. Joseph last

year," Osborne said kindly.

"How severe of you! Well, entre nous, I didn't break my heart about

him; yet if he had asked me to do what you mean by your looks (and very

expressive and kind they are, too), I wouldn't have said no."

Mr. Osborne gave a look as much as to say, "Indeed, how very obliging!"

"What an honour to have had you for a brother-in-law, you are thinking?

To be sister-in-law to George Osborne, Esquire, son of John Osborne,

Esquire, son of--what was your grandpapa, Mr. Osborne? Well, don't be

angry. You can't help your pedigree, and I quite agree with you that I

would have married Mr. Joe Sedley; for could a poor penniless girl do

better? Now you know the whole secret. I'm frank and open;

considering all things, it was very kind of you to allude to the

circumstance--very kind and polite. Amelia dear, Mr. Osborne and I

were talking about your poor brother Joseph. How is he?"

Thus was George utterly routed. Not that Rebecca was in the right; but

she had managed most successfully to put him in the wrong. And he now

shamefully fled, feeling, if he stayed another minute, that he would

have been made to look foolish in the presence of Amelia.

Though Rebecca had had the better of him, George was above the meanness

of talebearing or revenge upon a lady--only he could not help cleverly

confiding to Captain Crawley, next day, some notions of his regarding

Miss Rebecca--that she was a sharp one, a dangerous one, a desperate

flirt, &c.; in all of which opinions Crawley agreed laughingly, and

with every one of which Miss Rebecca was made acquainted before

twenty-four hours were over. They added to her original regard for Mr.

Osborne. Her woman's instinct had told her that it was George who had

interrupted the success of her first love-passage, and she esteemed him

accordingly.

"I only just warn you," he said to Rawdon Crawley, with a knowing

look--he had bought the horse, and lost some score of guineas after

dinner, "I just warn you--I know women, and counsel you to be on the

look-out."

"Thank you, my boy," said Crawley, with a look of peculiar gratitude.

"You're wide awake, I see." And George went off, thinking Crawley was

quite right.

He told Amelia of what he had done, and how he had counselled Rawdon

Crawley--a devilish good, straightforward fellow--to be on his guard

against that little sly, scheming Rebecca.

"Against whom?" Amelia cried.

"Your friend the governess.--Don't look so astonished."

"O George, what have you done?" Amelia said. For her woman's eyes,

which Love had made sharp-sighted, had in one instant discovered a

secret which was invisible to Miss Crawley, to poor virgin Briggs, and

above all, to the stupid peepers of that young whiskered prig,

Lieutenant Osborne.

For as Rebecca was shawling her in an upper apartment, where these two

friends had an opportunity for a little of that secret talking and

conspiring which form the delight of female life, Amelia, coming up to

Rebecca, and taking her two little hands in hers, said, "Rebecca, I see

it all."

Rebecca kissed her.

And regarding this delightful secret, not one syllable more was said by

either of the young women. But it was destined to come out before long.

Some short period after the above events, and Miss Rebecca Sharp still

remaining at her patroness's house in Park Lane, one more hatchment

might have been seen in Great Gaunt Street, figuring amongst the many

which usually ornament that dismal quarter. It was over Sir Pitt

Crawley's house; but it did not indicate the worthy baronet's demise.

It was a feminine hatchment, and indeed a few years back had served as

a funeral compliment to Sir Pitt's old mother, the late dowager Lady

Crawley. Its period of service over, the hatchment had come down from

the front of the house, and lived in retirement somewhere in the back

premises of Sir Pitt's mansion. It reappeared now for poor Rose Dawson.

Sir Pitt was a widower again. The arms quartered on the shield along

with his own were not, to be sure, poor Rose's. She had no arms. But

the cherubs painted on the scutcheon answered as well for her as for

Sir Pitt's mother, and Resurgam was written under the coat, flanked by

the Crawley Dove and Serpent. Arms and Hatchments, Resurgam.--Here is

an opportunity for moralising!

Mr. Crawley had tended that otherwise friendless bedside. She went out

of the world strengthened by such words and comfort as he could give

her. For many years his was the only kindness she ever knew; the only

friendship that solaced in any way that feeble, lonely soul. Her heart

was dead long before her body. She had sold it to become Sir Pitt

Crawley's wife. Mothers and daughters are making the same bargain

every day in Vanity Fair.

When the demise took place, her husband was in London attending to some

of his innumerable schemes, and busy with his endless lawyers. He had

found time, nevertheless, to call often in Park Lane, and to despatch

many notes to Rebecca, entreating her, enjoining her, commanding her to

return to her young pupils in the country, who were now utterly without

companionship during their mother's illness. But Miss Crawley would

not hear of her departure; for though there was no lady of fashion in

London who would desert her friends more complacently as soon as she

was tired of their society, and though few tired of them sooner, yet as

long as her engoument lasted her attachment was prodigious, and she

clung still with the greatest energy to Rebecca.

The news of Lady Crawley's death provoked no more grief or comment than

might have been expected in Miss Crawley's family circle. "I suppose I

must put off my party for the 3rd," Miss Crawley said; and added, after

a pause, "I hope my brother will have the decency not to marry again."

"What a confounded rage Pitt will be in if he does," Rawdon remarked,

with his usual regard for his elder brother. Rebecca said nothing. She

seemed by far the gravest and most impressed of the family. She left

the room before Rawdon went away that day; but they met by chance

below, as he was going away after taking leave, and had a parley

together.

On the morrow, as Rebecca was gazing from the window, she startled Miss

Crawley, who was placidly occupied with a French novel, by crying out

in an alarmed tone, "Here's Sir Pitt, Ma'am!" and the Baronet's knock

followed this announcement.

"My dear, I can't see him. I won't see him. Tell Bowls not at home,

or go downstairs and say I'm too ill to receive any one. My nerves

really won't bear my brother at this moment," cried out Miss Crawley,

and resumed the novel.

"She's too ill to see you, sir," Rebecca said, tripping down to Sir

Pitt, who was preparing to ascend.

"So much the better," Sir Pitt answered. "I want to see YOU, Miss

Becky. Come along a me into the parlour," and they entered that

apartment together.

"I wawnt you back at Queen's Crawley, Miss," the baronet said, fixing

his eyes upon her, and taking off his black gloves and his hat with its

great crape hat-band. His eyes had such a strange look, and fixed upon

her so steadfastly, that Rebecca Sharp began almost to tremble.

"I hope to come soon," she said in a low voice, "as soon as Miss

Crawley is better--and return to--to the dear children."

"You've said so these three months, Becky," replied Sir Pitt, "and

still you go hanging on to my sister, who'll fling you off like an old

shoe, when she's wore you out. I tell you I want you. I'm going back

to the Vuneral. Will you come back? Yes or no?"

"I daren't--I don't think--it would be right--to be alone--with you,

sir," Becky said, seemingly in great agitation.

"I say agin, I want you," Sir Pitt said, thumping the table. "I can't

git on without you. I didn't see what it was till you went away. The

house all goes wrong. It's not the same place. All my accounts has

got muddled agin. You MUST come back. Do come back. Dear Becky, do

come."

"Come--as what, sir?" Rebecca gasped out.

"Come as Lady Crawley, if you like," the Baronet said, grasping his

crape hat. "There! will that zatusfy you? Come back and be my wife.

Your vit vor't. Birth be hanged. You're as good a lady as ever I see.

You've got more brains in your little vinger than any baronet's wife in

the county. Will you come? Yes or no?"

"Oh, Sir Pitt!" Rebecca said, very much moved.

"Say yes, Becky," Sir Pitt continued. "I'm an old man, but a good'n.

I'm good for twenty years. I'll make you happy, zee if I don't. You

shall do what you like; spend what you like; and 'ave it all your own

way. I'll make you a zettlement. I'll do everything reglar. Look

year!" and the old man fell down on his knees and leered at her like a

satyr.

Rebecca started back a picture of consternation. In the course of this

history we have never seen her lose her presence of mind; but she did

now, and wept some of the most genuine tears that ever fell from her

eyes.

"Oh, Sir Pitt!" she said. "Oh, sir--I--I'm married ALREADY."