Vanity Fair
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.
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