CHAPTER XV

In Which Rebecca's Husband Appears for a Short Time

Every reader of a sentimental turn (and we desire no other) must have

been pleased with the tableau with which the last act of our little

drama concluded; for what can be prettier than an image of Love on his

knees before Beauty?

But when Love heard that awful confession from Beauty that she was

married already, he bounced up from his attitude of humility on the

carpet, uttering exclamations which caused poor little Beauty to be

more frightened than she was when she made her avowal. "Married;

you're joking," the Baronet cried, after the first explosion of rage

and wonder. "You're making vun of me, Becky. Who'd ever go to marry

you without a shilling to your vortune?"

"Married! married!" Rebecca said, in an agony of tears--her voice

choking with emotion, her handkerchief up to her ready eyes, fainting

against the mantelpiece a figure of woe fit to melt the most obdurate

heart. "O Sir Pitt, dear Sir Pitt, do not think me ungrateful for all

your goodness to me. It is only your generosity that has extorted my

secret."

"Generosity be hanged!" Sir Pitt roared out. "Who is it tu, then,

you're married? Where was it?"

"Let me come back with you to the country, sir! Let me watch over you

as faithfully as ever! Don't, don't separate me from dear Queen's

Crawley!"

"The feller has left you, has he?" the Baronet said, beginning, as he

fancied, to comprehend. "Well, Becky--come back if you like. You can't

eat your cake and have it. Any ways I made you a vair offer. Coom

back as governess--you shall have it all your own way." She held out

one hand. She cried fit to break her heart; her ringlets fell over her

face, and over the marble mantelpiece where she laid it.

"So the rascal ran off, eh?" Sir Pitt said, with a hideous attempt at

consolation. "Never mind, Becky, I'LL take care of 'ee."

"Oh, sir! it would be the pride of my life to go back to Queen's

Crawley, and take care of the children, and of you as formerly, when

you said you were pleased with the services of your little Rebecca.

When I think of what you have just offered me, my heart fills with

gratitude indeed it does. I can't be your wife, sir; let me--let me be

your daughter." Saying which, Rebecca went down on HER knees in a most

tragical way, and, taking Sir Pitt's horny black hand between her own

two (which were very pretty and white, and as soft as satin), looked up

in his face with an expression of exquisite pathos and confidence,

when--when the door opened, and Miss Crawley sailed in.

Mrs. Firkin and Miss Briggs, who happened by chance to be at the

parlour door soon after the Baronet and Rebecca entered the apartment,

had also seen accidentally, through the keyhole, the old gentleman

prostrate before the governess, and had heard the generous proposal

which he made her. It was scarcely out of his mouth when Mrs. Firkin

and Miss Briggs had streamed up the stairs, had rushed into the

drawing-room where Miss Crawley was reading the French novel, and had

given that old lady the astounding intelligence that Sir Pitt was on

his knees, proposing to Miss Sharp. And if you calculate the time for

the above dialogue to take place--the time for Briggs and Firkin to fly

to the drawing-room--the time for Miss Crawley to be astonished, and to

drop her volume of Pigault le Brun--and the time for her to come

downstairs--you will see how exactly accurate this history is, and how

Miss Crawley must have appeared at the very instant when Rebecca had

assumed the attitude of humility.

"It is the lady on the ground, and not the gentleman," Miss Crawley

said, with a look and voice of great scorn. "They told me that YOU were

on your knees, Sir Pitt: do kneel once more, and let me see this pretty

couple!"

"I have thanked Sir Pitt Crawley, Ma'am," Rebecca said, rising, "and

have told him that--that I never can become Lady Crawley."

"Refused him!" Miss Crawley said, more bewildered than ever. Briggs

and Firkin at the door opened the eyes of astonishment and the lips of

wonder.

"Yes--refused," Rebecca continued, with a sad, tearful voice.

"And am I to credit my ears that you absolutely proposed to her, Sir

Pitt?" the old lady asked.

"Ees," said the Baronet, "I did."

"And she refused you as she says?"

"Ees," Sir Pitt said, his features on a broad grin.

"It does not seem to break your heart at any rate," Miss Crawley

remarked.

"Nawt a bit," answered Sir Pitt, with a coolness and good-humour which

set Miss Crawley almost mad with bewilderment. That an old gentleman

of station should fall on his knees to a penniless governess, and burst

out laughing because she refused to marry him--that a penniless

governess should refuse a Baronet with four thousand a year--these were

mysteries which Miss Crawley could never comprehend. It surpassed any

complications of intrigue in her favourite Pigault le Brun.

"I'm glad you think it good sport, brother," she continued, groping

wildly through this amazement.

"Vamous," said Sir Pitt. "Who'd ha' thought it! what a sly little

devil! what a little fox it waws!" he muttered to himself, chuckling

with pleasure.

"Who'd have thought what?" cries Miss Crawley, stamping with her foot.

"Pray, Miss Sharp, are you waiting for the Prince Regent's divorce,

that you don't think our family good enough for you?"

"My attitude," Rebecca said, "when you came in, ma'am, did not look as

if I despised such an honour as this good--this noble man has deigned

to offer me. Do you think I have no heart? Have you all loved me, and

been so kind to the poor orphan--deserted--girl, and am I to feel

nothing? O my friends! O my benefactors! may not my love, my life, my

duty, try to repay the confidence you have shown me? Do you grudge me

even gratitude, Miss Crawley? It is too much--my heart is too full";

and she sank down in a chair so pathetically, that most of the audience

present were perfectly melted with her sadness.

"Whether you marry me or not, you're a good little girl, Becky, and I'm

your vriend, mind," said Sir Pitt, and putting on his crape-bound hat,

he walked away--greatly to Rebecca's relief; for it was evident that

her secret was unrevealed to Miss Crawley, and she had the advantage of

a brief reprieve.

Putting her handkerchief to her eyes, and nodding away honest Briggs,

who would have followed her upstairs, she went up to her apartment;

while Briggs and Miss Crawley, in a high state of excitement, remained

to discuss the strange event, and Firkin, not less moved, dived down

into the kitchen regions, and talked of it with all the male and female

company there. And so impressed was Mrs. Firkin with the news, that

she thought proper to write off by that very night's post, "with her

humble duty to Mrs. Bute Crawley and the family at the Rectory, and Sir

Pitt has been and proposed for to marry Miss Sharp, wherein she has

refused him, to the wonder of all."

The two ladies in the dining-room (where worthy Miss Briggs was

delighted to be admitted once more to confidential conversation with

her patroness) wondered to their hearts' content at Sir Pitt's offer,

and Rebecca's refusal; Briggs very acutely suggesting that there must

have been some obstacle in the shape of a previous attachment,

otherwise no young woman in her senses would ever have refused so

advantageous a proposal.

"You would have accepted it yourself, wouldn't you, Briggs?" Miss

Crawley said, kindly.

"Would it not be a privilege to be Miss Crawley's sister?" Briggs

replied, with meek evasion.

"Well, Becky would have made a good Lady Crawley, after all," Miss

Crawley remarked (who was mollified by the girl's refusal, and very

liberal and generous now there was no call for her sacrifices). "She

has brains in plenty (much more wit in her little finger than you have,

my poor dear Briggs, in all your head). Her manners are excellent, now

I have formed her. She is a Montmorency, Briggs, and blood is

something, though I despise it for my part; and she would have held her

own amongst those pompous stupid Hampshire people much better than that

unfortunate ironmonger's daughter."

Briggs coincided as usual, and the "previous attachment" was then

discussed in conjectures. "You poor friendless creatures are always

having some foolish tendre," Miss Crawley said. "You yourself, you

know, were in love with a writing-master (don't cry, Briggs--you're

always crying, and it won't bring him to life again), and I suppose

this unfortunate Becky has been silly and sentimental too--some

apothecary, or house-steward, or painter, or young curate, or something

of that sort."

"Poor thing! poor thing!" says Briggs (who was thinking of twenty-four

years back, and that hectic young writing-master whose lock of yellow

hair, and whose letters, beautiful in their illegibility, she cherished

in her old desk upstairs). "Poor thing, poor thing!" says Briggs.

Once more she was a fresh-cheeked lass of eighteen; she was at evening

church, and the hectic writing-master and she were quavering out of the

same psalm-book.

"After such conduct on Rebecca's part," Miss Crawley said

enthusiastically, "our family should do something. Find out who is the

objet, Briggs. I'll set him up in a shop; or order my portrait of him,

you know; or speak to my cousin, the Bishop and I'll doter Becky, and

we'll have a wedding, Briggs, and you shall make the breakfast, and be

a bridesmaid."

Briggs declared that it would be delightful, and vowed that her dear

Miss Crawley was always kind and generous, and went up to Rebecca's

bedroom to console her and prattle about the offer, and the refusal,

and the cause thereof; and to hint at the generous intentions of Miss

Crawley, and to find out who was the gentleman that had the mastery of

Miss Sharp's heart.

Rebecca was very kind, very affectionate and affected--responded to

Briggs's offer of tenderness with grateful fervour--owned there was a

secret attachment--a delicious mystery--what a pity Miss Briggs had not

remained half a minute longer at the keyhole! Rebecca might, perhaps,

have told more: but five minutes after Miss Briggs's arrival in

Rebecca's apartment, Miss Crawley actually made her appearance

there--an unheard-of honour--her impatience had overcome her; she could

not wait for the tardy operations of her ambassadress: so she came in

person, and ordered Briggs out of the room. And expressing her approval

of Rebecca's conduct, she asked particulars of the interview, and the

previous transactions which had brought about the astonishing offer of

Sir Pitt.

Rebecca said she had long had some notion of the partiality with which

Sir Pitt honoured her (for he was in the habit of making his feelings

known in a very frank and unreserved manner) but, not to mention

private reasons with which she would not for the present trouble Miss

Crawley, Sir Pitt's age, station, and habits were such as to render a

marriage quite impossible; and could a woman with any feeling of

self-respect and any decency listen to proposals at such a moment, when

the funeral of the lover's deceased wife had not actually taken place?

"Nonsense, my dear, you would never have refused him had there not been

some one else in the case," Miss Crawley said, coming to her point at

once. "Tell me the private reasons; what are the private reasons?

There is some one; who is it that has touched your heart?"

Rebecca cast down her eyes, and owned there was. "You have guessed

right, dear lady," she said, with a sweet simple faltering voice. "You

wonder at one so poor and friendless having an attachment, don't you? I

have never heard that poverty was any safeguard against it. I wish it

were."

"My poor dear child," cried Miss Crawley, who was always quite ready to

be sentimental, "is our passion unrequited, then? Are we pining in

secret? Tell me all, and let me console you."

"I wish you could, dear Madam," Rebecca said in the same tearful tone.

"Indeed, indeed, I need it." And she laid her head upon Miss Crawley's

shoulder and wept there so naturally that the old lady, surprised into

sympathy, embraced her with an almost maternal kindness, uttered many

soothing protests of regard and affection for her, vowed that she loved

her as a daughter, and would do everything in her power to serve her.

"And now who is it, my dear? Is it that pretty Miss Sedley's brother?

You said something about an affair with him. I'll ask him here, my

dear. And you shall have him: indeed you shall."

"Don't ask me now," Rebecca said. "You shall know all soon. Indeed

you shall. Dear kind Miss Crawley--dear friend, may I say so?"

"That you may, my child," the old lady replied, kissing her.

"I can't tell you now," sobbed out Rebecca, "I am very miserable. But

O! love me always--promise you will love me always." And in the midst

of mutual tears--for the emotions of the younger woman had awakened the

sympathies of the elder--this promise was solemnly given by Miss

Crawley, who left her little protege, blessing and admiring her as a

dear, artless, tender-hearted, affectionate, incomprehensible creature.

And now she was left alone to think over the sudden and wonderful

events of the day, and of what had been and what might have been. What

think you were the private feelings of Miss, no (begging her pardon) of

Mrs. Rebecca? If, a few pages back, the present writer claimed the

privilege of peeping into Miss Amelia Sedley's bedroom, and

understanding with the omniscience of the novelist all the gentle pains

and passions which were tossing upon that innocent pillow, why should

he not declare himself to be Rebecca's confidante too, master of her

secrets, and seal-keeper of that young woman's conscience?

Well, then, in the first place, Rebecca gave way to some very sincere

and touching regrets that a piece of marvellous good fortune should

have been so near her, and she actually obliged to decline it. In this

natural emotion every properly regulated mind will certainly share.

What good mother is there that would not commiserate a penniless

spinster, who might have been my lady, and have shared four thousand a

year? What well-bred young person is there in all Vanity Fair, who

will not feel for a hard-working, ingenious, meritorious girl, who gets

such an honourable, advantageous, provoking offer, just at the very

moment when it is out of her power to accept it? I am sure our friend

Becky's disappointment deserves and will command every sympathy.

I remember one night being in the Fair myself, at an evening party. I

observed old Miss Toady there also present, single out for her special

attentions and flattery little Mrs. Briefless, the barrister's wife,

who is of a good family certainly, but, as we all know, is as poor as

poor can be.

What, I asked in my own mind, can cause this obsequiousness on the part

of Miss Toady; has Briefless got a county court, or has his wife had a

fortune left her? Miss Toady explained presently, with that simplicity

which distinguishes all her conduct. "You know," she said, "Mrs

Briefless is granddaughter of Sir John Redhand, who is so ill at

Cheltenham that he can't last six months. Mrs. Briefless's papa

succeeds; so you see she will be a baronet's daughter." And Toady asked

Briefless and his wife to dinner the very next week.

If the mere chance of becoming a baronet's daughter can procure a lady

such homage in the world, surely, surely we may respect the agonies of

a young woman who has lost the opportunity of becoming a baronet's

wife. Who would have dreamed of Lady Crawley dying so soon? She was

one of those sickly women that might have lasted these ten

years--Rebecca thought to herself, in all the woes of repentance--and I

might have been my lady! I might have led that old man whither I

would. I might have thanked Mrs. Bute for her patronage, and Mr. Pitt

for his insufferable condescension. I would have had the town-house

newly furnished and decorated. I would have had the handsomest

carriage in London, and a box at the opera; and I would have been

presented next season. All this might have been; and now--now all was

doubt and mystery.

But Rebecca was a young lady of too much resolution and energy of

character to permit herself much useless and unseemly sorrow for the

irrevocable past; so, having devoted only the proper portion of regret

to it, she wisely turned her whole attention towards the future, which

was now vastly more important to her. And she surveyed her position,

and its hopes, doubts, and chances.

In the first place, she was MARRIED--that was a great fact. Sir Pitt

knew it. She was not so much surprised into the avowal, as induced to

make it by a sudden calculation. It must have come some day: and why

not now as at a later period? He who would have married her himself

must at least be silent with regard to her marriage. How Miss Crawley

would bear the news--was the great question. Misgivings Rebecca had;

but she remembered all Miss Crawley had said; the old lady's avowed

contempt for birth; her daring liberal opinions; her general romantic

propensities; her almost doting attachment to her nephew, and her

repeatedly expressed fondness for Rebecca herself. She is so fond of

him, Rebecca thought, that she will forgive him anything: she is so

used to me that I don't think she could be comfortable without me: when

the eclaircissement comes there will be a scene, and hysterics, and a

great quarrel, and then a great reconciliation. At all events, what

use was there in delaying? the die was thrown, and now or to-morrow the

issue must be the same. And so, resolved that Miss Crawley should have

the news, the young person debated in her mind as to the best means of

conveying it to her; and whether she should face the storm that must

come, or fly and avoid it until its first fury was blown over. In this

state of meditation she wrote the following letter:

Dearest Friend,

The great crisis which we have debated about so often is COME. Half of

my secret is known, and I have thought and thought, until I am quite

sure that now is the time to reveal THE WHOLE OF THE MYSTERY. Sir Pitt

came to me this morning, and made--what do you think?--A DECLARATION IN

FORM. Think of that! Poor little me. I might have been Lady Crawley.

How pleased Mrs. Bute would have been: and ma tante if I had taken

precedence of her! I might have been somebody's mamma, instead of--O, I

tremble, I tremble, when I think how soon we must tell all!

Sir Pitt knows I am married, and not knowing to whom, is not very much

displeased as yet. Ma tante is ACTUALLY ANGRY that I should have

refused him. But she is all kindness and graciousness. She

condescends to say I would have made him a good wife; and vows that she

will be a mother to your little Rebecca. She will be shaken when she

first hears the news. But need we fear anything beyond a momentary

anger? I think not: I AM SURE not. She dotes upon you so (you

naughty, good-for-nothing man), that she would pardon you ANYTHING:

and, indeed, I believe, the next place in her heart is mine: and that

she would be miserable without me. Dearest! something TELLS ME we shall

conquer. You shall leave that odious regiment: quit gaming, racing,

and BE A GOOD BOY; and we shall all live in Park Lane, and ma tante

shall leave us all her money.

I shall try and walk to-morrow at 3 in the usual place. If Miss B.

accompanies me, you must come to dinner, and bring an answer, and put

it in the third volume of Porteus's Sermons. But, at all events, come

to your own

R.

To Miss Eliza Styles, At Mr. Barnet's, Saddler, Knightsbridge.

And I trust there is no reader of this little story who has not

discernment enough to perceive that the Miss Eliza Styles (an old

schoolfellow, Rebecca said, with whom she had resumed an active

correspondence of late, and who used to fetch these letters from the

saddler's), wore brass spurs, and large curling mustachios, and was

indeed no other than Captain Rawdon Crawley.