Miss Crawley, who was placidly occupied with a French novel, by crying out in an alarmed tone, “Here’s Sir Pitt, Ma’am!” and the Baronet’s knock followed this announcement.
“My dear, I can’t see him. I won’t see him. Tell Bowls not at home, or go downstairs and say I’m too ill to receive any one. My nerves really won’t bear my brother at this moment;” cried out Miss Crawley, and resumed the novel.
“She’s too ill to see you sir,” Rebecca said, tripping down to Sir Pitt, who was preparing to ascend.
“So much the better,” Sir Pitt answered. “I want to see you, Miss Becky. Come along a me into the parlour,” and they entered that apartment together.
“I wawnt you back at Queen’s Crawley, Miss,” the Baronet said, fixing his eyes upon her, and taking off his black gloves and his hat with its great crape hat-band. His eyes had such a strange look, and fixed upon her so steadfastly, that Rebecca Sharp began almost to tremble.
“I hope to come soon,” she said in a low voice, “as soon as Miss Crawley is better—and return to—to the dear children.”
“You’ve said so these three months, Becky,” replied Sir Pitt, “and still you go hanging on to my sister, who’ll fling you off like an old shoe, when she’s worn you out. I tell you I want you. I’m going back to the Vuneral. Will you come back? Yes or no?”
“I daren’t—I don’t think—it would be right—to be alone—with you, sir,” Becky said, seemingly in great agitation.
“I say agin, I want you,” Sir Pitt said, thumping the table. “I can’t git on without you. I didn’t see what it was till you went away. The house all goes wrong. It’s not the same place. All my accounts has got muddled agin. You must come back. Do come back. Dear Becky, do come.”
“Come—as what, sir?” Rebecca gasped out.
“Come as Lady Crawley, if you like,” the Baronet said, grasping his crape hat. “There! will that zatisfy you? Come back and be my wife. Your vit vor’t. Birth be hanged. You’re as good a lady as ever I see. You’ve got more brains in your little vinger than any baronet’s wife in the county. Will you come? Yes or no?”
“O Sir Pitt!” Rebecca said, very much moved.
“Say yes, Becky,” Sir Pitt continued. “I’m an old man, but a good’n. I’m good for twenty years. I’ll make you happy, zee if I don’t. You shall do what you like; spend what you like; and ’av it all your own way. I’ll make you a zettlement. I’ll do everything reglar. Look year!” and the old man fell down on his knees and leered at her like a satyr.
Rebecca started back a picture of consternation. In the course of this history we have never seen her lose her presence of mind; but she did now, and wept some of the most genuine tears that ever fell from her eyes.
“O Sir Pitt!” she said. “O sir—I—I’m married already.”
CHAPTER 15 In which Rebecca’s husband appears for a short time
Every reader of a sentimental turn (and we desire no other) must have been pleased with the tableau with which the last act of our little drama concluded; for what can be prettier than an image of Love on his knees before Beauty?
But when Love heard that awful confession from Beauty that she was married already, he bounced up from his attitude of humility on the carpet, uttering exclamations which caused poor little Beauty to be more frightened than she was when she made her avowal. “Married; you’re joking,” the Baronet cried, after the first explosion of rage and wonder. “You’re making vun of me, Becky. Who’d ever go to marry you without a shilling to your fortune?”
“Married! married!” Rebecca said, in an agony of tears—her voice choking with emotion, her handkerchief up to her ready eyes, fainting against the mantelpiece—a figure of woe fit to melt the most obdurate heart. “O Sir Pitt, dear Sir Pitt, do not think me ungrateful for all your goodness to me. It is only your generosity that has extorted my secret.”
“Generosity be hanged!” Sir Pitt roared out. “Who is it tu, then, you’re married? Where was it?”
“Let me come back with you to the country, sir! Let me watch over you as faithfully as ever! Don’t, don’t separate me from dear Queen’s Crawley!”
“The feller has left you, has he?” the Baronet said, beginning, as he fancied, to comprehend. “Well, Becky—come back if you like. You can’t eat your cake and have it. Anyways I made you a vair offer. Coom back as governess—you shall have it all your own way.” She held out one hand. She cried fit to break her heart; her ringlets fell over her face, and over the marble mantelpiece where she laid it.
“So the rascal ran off, eh?” Sir Pitt said, with a hideous attempt at consolation. “Never mind, Becky, I’ll take care of ’ee.”
“O sir! it would be the pride of my life to go back to Queen’s Crawley, and take care of the children, and of you as formerly, when you said you were pleased with the services of your little Rebecca. When I think of what you have just offered me, my heart fills with gratitude—indeed it does. I can’t be your wife, sir; let me—let me be your daughter!”
Saying which, Rebecca went down on her knees in a most tragical way, and, taking Sir Pitt’s horny black hand between her own two (which were very pretty and white, and as soft as satin), looked up in his face with an expression of exquisite pathos and confidence, when—when the door opened and Miss Crawley sailed in.
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
