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
