Vanity Fair (25 page)

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.