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
