CHAPTER XVI

The Letter on the Pincushion

How they were married is not of the slightest consequence to anybody.

What is to hinder a Captain who is a major, and a young lady who is of

age, from purchasing a licence, and uniting themselves at any church in

this town? Who needs to be told, that if a woman has a will she will

assuredly find a way?--My belief is that one day, when Miss Sharp had

gone to pass the forenoon with her dear friend Miss Amelia Sedley in

Russell Square, a lady very like her might have been seen entering a

church in the City, in company with a gentleman with dyed mustachios,

who, after a quarter of an hour's interval, escorted her back to the

hackney-coach in waiting, and that this was a quiet bridal party.

And who on earth, after the daily experience we have, can question the

probability of a gentleman marrying anybody? How many of the wise and

learned have married their cooks? Did not Lord Eldon himself, the most

prudent of men, make a runaway match? Were not Achilles and Ajax both

in love with their servant maids? And are we to expect a heavy dragoon

with strong desires and small brains, who had never controlled a

passion in his life, to become prudent all of a sudden, and to refuse

to pay any price for an indulgence to which he had a mind? If people

only made prudent marriages, what a stop to population there would be!

It seems to me, for my part, that Mr. Rawdon's marriage was one of the

honestest actions which we shall have to record in any portion of that

gentleman's biography which has to do with the present history. No one

will say it is unmanly to be captivated by a woman, or, being

captivated, to marry her; and the admiration, the delight, the passion,

the wonder, the unbounded confidence, and frantic adoration with which,

by degrees, this big warrior got to regard the little Rebecca, were

feelings which the ladies at least will pronounce were not altogether

discreditable to him. When she sang, every note thrilled in his dull

soul, and tingled through his huge frame. When she spoke, he brought

all the force of his brains to listen and wonder. If she was jocular,

he used to revolve her jokes in his mind, and explode over them half an

hour afterwards in the street, to the surprise of the groom in the

tilbury by his side, or the comrade riding with him in Rotten Row. Her

words were oracles to him, her smallest actions marked by an infallible

grace and wisdom. "How she sings,--how she paints," thought he. "How

she rode that kicking mare at Queen's Crawley!" And he would say to

her in confidential moments, "By Jove, Beck, you're fit to be

Commander-in-Chief, or Archbishop of Canterbury, by Jove." Is his

case a rare one? and don't we see every day in the world many an honest

Hercules at the apron-strings of Omphale, and great whiskered Samsons

prostrate in Delilah's lap?

When, then, Becky told him that the great crisis was near, and the time

for action had arrived, Rawdon expressed himself as ready to act under

her orders, as he would be to charge with his troop at the command of

his colonel. There was no need for him to put his letter into the

third volume of Porteus. Rebecca easily found a means to get rid of

Briggs, her companion, and met her faithful friend in "the usual place"

on the next day. She had thought over matters at night, and

communicated to Rawdon the result of her determinations. He agreed, of

course, to everything; was quite sure that it was all right: that what

she proposed was best; that Miss Crawley would infallibly relent, or

"come round," as he said, after a time. Had Rebecca's resolutions been

entirely different, he would have followed them as implicitly. "You

have head enough for both of us, Beck," said he. "You're sure to get

us out of the scrape. I never saw your equal, and I've met with some

clippers in my time too." And with this simple confession of faith, the

love-stricken dragoon left her to execute his part of the project which

she had formed for the pair.

It consisted simply in the hiring of quiet lodgings at Brompton, or in

the neighbourhood of the barracks, for Captain and Mrs. Crawley. For

Rebecca had determined, and very prudently, we think, to fly. Rawdon

was only too happy at her resolve; he had been entreating her to take

this measure any time for weeks past. He pranced off to engage the

lodgings with all the impetuosity of love. He agreed to pay two

guineas a week so readily, that the landlady regretted she had asked

him so little. He ordered in a piano, and half a nursery-house full of

flowers: and a heap of good things. As for shawls, kid gloves, silk

stockings, gold French watches, bracelets and perfumery, he sent them

in with the profusion of blind love and unbounded credit. And having

relieved his mind by this outpouring of generosity, he went and dined

nervously at the club, waiting until the great moment of his life

should come.

The occurrences of the previous day; the admirable conduct of

Rebecca in refusing an offer so advantageous to her, the secret

unhappiness preying upon her, the sweetness and silence with which she

bore her affliction, made Miss Crawley much more tender than usual. An

event of this nature, a marriage, or a refusal, or a proposal, thrills

through a whole household of women, and sets all their hysterical

sympathies at work. As an observer of human nature, I regularly

frequent St. George's, Hanover Square, during the genteel marriage

season; and though I have never seen the bridegroom's male friends give

way to tears, or the beadles and officiating clergy any way affected,

yet it is not at all uncommon to see women who are not in the least

concerned in the operations going on--old ladies who are long past

marrying, stout middle-aged females with plenty of sons and daughters,

let alone pretty young creatures in pink bonnets, who are on their

promotion, and may naturally take an interest in the ceremony--I say it

is quite common to see the women present piping, sobbing, sniffling;

hiding their little faces in their little useless pocket-handkerchiefs;

and heaving, old and young, with emotion. When my friend, the

fashionable John Pimlico, married the lovely Lady Belgravia Green

Parker, the excitement was so general that even the little snuffy old

pew-opener who let me into the seat was in tears. And wherefore? I

inquired of my own soul: she was not going to be married.

Miss Crawley and Briggs in a word, after the affair of Sir Pitt,

indulged in the utmost luxury of sentiment, and Rebecca became an

object of the most tender interest to them. In her absence Miss

Crawley solaced herself with the most sentimental of the novels in her

library. Little Sharp, with her secret griefs, was the heroine of the

day.

That night Rebecca sang more sweetly and talked more pleasantly than

she had ever been heard to do in Park Lane. She twined herself round

the heart of Miss Crawley. She spoke lightly and laughingly of Sir

Pitt's proposal, ridiculed it as the foolish fancy of an old man; and

her eyes filled with tears, and Briggs's heart with unutterable pangs

of defeat, as she said she desired no other lot than to remain for ever

with her dear benefactress. "My dear little creature," the old lady

said, "I don't intend to let you stir for years, that you may depend

upon it. As for going back to that odious brother of mine after what

has passed, it is out of the question. Here you stay with me and

Briggs. Briggs wants to go to see her relations very often. Briggs,

you may go when you like. But as for you, my dear, you must stay and

take care of the old woman."

If Rawdon Crawley had been then and there present, instead of being at

the club nervously drinking claret, the pair might have gone down on

their knees before the old spinster, avowed all, and been forgiven in a

twinkling. But that good chance was denied to the young couple,

doubtless in order that this story might be written, in which numbers

of their wonderful adventures are narrated--adventures which could

never have occurred to them if they had been housed and sheltered under

the comfortable uninteresting forgiveness of Miss Crawley.

Under Mrs. Firkin's orders, in the Park Lane establishment, was a young

woman from Hampshire, whose business it was, among other duties, to

knock at Miss Sharp's door with that jug of hot water which Firkin

would rather have perished than have presented to the intruder. This

girl, bred on the family estate, had a brother in Captain Crawley's

troop, and if the truth were known, I daresay it would come out that

she was aware of certain arrangements, which have a great deal to do

with this history. At any rate she purchased a yellow shawl, a pair of

green boots, and a light blue hat with a red feather with three guineas

which Rebecca gave her, and as little Sharp was by no means too liberal

with her money, no doubt it was for services rendered that Betty Martin

was so bribed.

On the second day after Sir Pitt Crawley's offer to Miss Sharp, the sun

rose as usual, and at the usual hour Betty Martin, the upstairs maid,

knocked at the door of the governess's bedchamber.

No answer was returned, and she knocked again. Silence was still

uninterrupted; and Betty, with the hot water, opened the door and

entered the chamber.

The little white dimity bed was as smooth and trim as on the day

previous, when Betty's own hands had helped to make it. Two little

trunks were corded in one end of the room; and on the table before the

window--on the pincushion--the great fat pincushion lined with pink

inside, and twilled like a lady's nightcap--lay a letter. It had been

reposing there probably all night.

Betty advanced towards it on tiptoe, as if she were afraid to awake

it--looked at it, and round the room, with an air of great wonder and

satisfaction; took up the letter, and grinned intensely as she turned

it round and over, and finally carried it into Miss Briggs's room below.

How could Betty tell that the letter was for Miss Briggs, I should like

to know? All the schooling Betty had had was at Mrs. Bute Crawley's

Sunday school, and she could no more read writing than Hebrew.

"La, Miss Briggs," the girl exclaimed, "O, Miss, something must have

happened--there's nobody in Miss Sharp's room; the bed ain't been slep

in, and she've run away, and left this letter for you, Miss."

"WHAT!" cries Briggs, dropping her comb, the thin wisp of faded hair

falling over her shoulders; "an elopement! Miss Sharp a fugitive! What,

what is this?" and she eagerly broke the neat seal, and, as they say,

"devoured the contents" of the letter addressed to her.

Dear Miss Briggs [the refugee wrote], the kindest heart in the world,

as yours is, will pity and sympathise with me and excuse me. With

tears, and prayers, and blessings, I leave the home where the poor

orphan has ever met with kindness and affection. Claims even superior

to those of my benefactress call me hence. I go to my duty--to my

HUSBAND. Yes, I am married. My husband COMMANDS me to seek the HUMBLE

HOME which we call ours. Dearest Miss Briggs, break the news as your

delicate sympathy will know how to do it--to my dear, my beloved friend

and benefactress. Tell her, ere I went, I shed tears on her dear

pillow--that pillow that I have so often soothed in sickness--that I

long AGAIN to watch--Oh, with what joy shall I return to dear Park

Lane! How I tremble for the answer which is to SEAL MY FATE! When Sir

Pitt deigned to offer me his hand, an honour of which my beloved Miss

Crawley said I was DESERVING (my blessings go with her for judging the

poor orphan worthy to be HER SISTER!) I told Sir Pitt that I was

already A WIFE. Even he forgave me. But my courage failed me, when I

should have told him all--that I could not be his wife, for I WAS HIS

DAUGHTER! I am wedded to the best and most generous of men--Miss

Crawley's Rawdon is MY Rawdon. At his COMMAND I open my lips, and

follow him to our humble home, as I would THROUGH THE WORLD. O, my

excellent and kind friend, intercede with my Rawdon's beloved aunt for

him and the poor girl to whom all HIS NOBLE RACE have shown such

UNPARALLELED AFFECTION. Ask Miss Crawley to receive HER CHILDREN. I

can say no more, but blessings, blessings on all in the dear house I

leave, prays

Your affectionate and GRATEFUL Rebecca Crawley. Midnight.

Just as Briggs had finished reading this affecting and interesting

document, which reinstated her in her position as first confidante of

Miss Crawley, Mrs. Firkin entered the room. "Here's Mrs. Bute Crawley

just arrived by the mail from Hampshire, and wants some tea; will you

come down and make breakfast, Miss?"

And to the surprise of Firkin, clasping her dressing-gown around her,

the wisp of hair floating dishevelled behind her, the little

curl-papers still sticking in bunches round her forehead, Briggs sailed

down to Mrs. Bute with the letter in her hand containing the wonderful

news.

"Oh, Mrs. Firkin," gasped Betty, "sech a business. Miss Sharp have a

gone and run away with the Capting, and they're off to Gretney Green!"

We would devote a chapter to describe the emotions of Mrs. Firkin, did

not the passions of her mistresses occupy our genteeler muse.

When Mrs. Bute Crawley, numbed with midnight travelling, and warming

herself at the newly crackling parlour fire, heard from Miss Briggs the

intelligence of the clandestine marriage, she declared it was quite

providential that she should have arrived at such a time to assist poor

dear Miss Crawley in supporting the shock--that Rebecca was an artful

little hussy of whom she had always had her suspicions; and that as for

Rawdon Crawley, she never could account for his aunt's infatuation

regarding him, and had long considered him a profligate, lost, and

abandoned being. And this awful conduct, Mrs. Bute said, will have at

least this good effect, it will open poor dear Miss Crawley's eyes to

the real character of this wicked man. Then Mrs. Bute had a

comfortable hot toast and tea; and as there was a vacant room in the

house now, there was no need for her to remain at the Gloster Coffee

House where the Portsmouth mail had set her down, and whence she

ordered Mr. Bowls's aide-de-camp the footman to bring away her trunks.

Miss Crawley, be it known, did not leave her room until near noon--taking

chocolate in bed in the morning, while Becky Sharp read the

Morning Post to her, or otherwise amusing herself or dawdling. The

conspirators below agreed that they would spare the dear lady's

feelings until she appeared in her drawing-room: meanwhile it was

announced to her that Mrs. Bute Crawley had come up from Hampshire by

the mail, was staying at the Gloster, sent her love to Miss Crawley,

and asked for breakfast with Miss Briggs. The arrival of Mrs. Bute,

which would not have caused any extreme delight at another period, was

hailed with pleasure now; Miss Crawley being pleased at the notion of a

gossip with her sister-in-law regarding the late Lady Crawley, the

funeral arrangements pending, and Sir Pitt's abrupt proposal to Rebecca.

It was not until the old lady was fairly ensconced in her usual

arm-chair in the drawing-room, and the preliminary embraces and inquiries

had taken place between the ladies, that the conspirators thought it

advisable to submit her to the operation. Who has not admired the

artifices and delicate approaches with which women "prepare" their

friends for bad news? Miss Crawley's two friends made such an

apparatus of mystery before they broke the intelligence to her, that

they worked her up to the necessary degree of doubt and alarm.

"And she refused Sir Pitt, my dear, dear Miss Crawley, prepare yourself

for it," Mrs. Bute said, "because--because she couldn't help herself."

"Of course there was a reason," Miss Crawley answered. "She liked

somebody else. I told Briggs so yesterday."

"LIKES somebody else!" Briggs gasped. "O my dear friend, she is

married already."

"Married already," Mrs. Bute chimed in; and both sate with clasped

hands looking from each other at their victim.

"Send her to me, the instant she comes in. The little sly wretch: how

dared she not tell me?" cried out Miss Crawley.

"She won't come in soon. Prepare yourself, dear friend--she's gone out

for a long time--she's--she's gone altogether."

"Gracious goodness, and who's to make my chocolate? Send for her and

have her back; I desire that she come back," the old lady said.

"She decamped last night, Ma'am," cried Mrs. Bute.

"She left a letter for me," Briggs exclaimed. "She's married to--"

"Prepare her, for heaven's sake. Don't torture her, my dear Miss

Briggs."

"She's married to whom?" cries the spinster in a nervous fury.

"To--to a relation of--"

"She refused Sir Pitt," cried the victim. "Speak at once. Don't drive

me mad."

"O Ma'am--prepare her, Miss Briggs--she's married to Rawdon Crawley."

"Rawdon married Rebecca--governess--nobod-- Get out of my house, you

fool, you idiot--you stupid old Briggs--how dare you? You're in the

plot--you made him marry, thinking that I'd leave my money from him--you

did, Martha," the poor old lady screamed in hysteric sentences.

"I, Ma'am, ask a member of this family to marry a drawing-master's

daughter?"

"Her mother was a Montmorency," cried out the old lady, pulling at the

bell with all her might.

"Her mother was an opera girl, and she has been on the stage or worse

herself," said Mrs. Bute.

Miss Crawley gave a final scream, and fell back in a faint. They were

forced to take her back to the room which she had just quitted. One fit

of hysterics succeeded another. The doctor was sent for--the

apothecary arrived. Mrs. Bute took up the post of nurse by her bedside.

"Her relations ought to be round about her," that amiable woman said.

She had scarcely been carried up to her room, when a new person arrived

to whom it was also necessary to break the news. This was Sir Pitt.

"Where's Becky?" he said, coming in. "Where's her traps? She's coming

with me to Queen's Crawley."

"Have you not heard the astonishing intelligence regarding her

surreptitious union?" Briggs asked.

"What's that to me?" Sir Pitt asked. "I know she's married. That

makes no odds. Tell her to come down at once, and not keep me."

"Are you not aware, sir," Miss Briggs asked, "that she has left our

roof, to the dismay of Miss Crawley, who is nearly killed by the

intelligence of Captain Rawdon's union with her?"

When Sir Pitt Crawley heard that Rebecca was married to his son, he

broke out into a fury of language, which it would do no good to repeat

in this place, as indeed it sent poor Briggs shuddering out of the

room; and with her we will shut the door upon the figure of the

frenzied old man, wild with hatred and insane with baffled desire.

One day after he went to Queen's Crawley, he burst like a madman into

the room she had used when there--dashed open her boxes with his foot,

and flung about her papers, clothes, and other relics. Miss Horrocks,

the butler's daughter, took some of them. The children dressed

themselves and acted plays in the others. It was but a few days after

the poor mother had gone to her lonely burying-place; and was laid,

unwept and disregarded, in a vault full of strangers.

"Suppose the old lady doesn't come to," Rawdon said to his little wife,

as they sate together in the snug little Brompton lodgings. She had

been trying the new piano all the morning. The new gloves fitted her

to a nicety; the new shawls became her wonderfully; the new rings

glittered on her little hands, and the new watch ticked at her waist;

"suppose she don't come round, eh, Becky?"

"I'LL make your fortune," she said; and Delilah patted Samson's cheek.

"You can do anything," he said, kissing the little hand. "By Jove you

can; and we'll drive down to the Star and Garter, and dine, by Jove."