Vanity Fair (27 page)

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 until she appeared in her drawing-room: meanwhile it was
announced to her that Mrs. Bute Crawley had come up from Hampshire
by the mail, was staying at the Gloster, sent her love to Miss
Crawley, and asked for breakfast with Miss Briggs. The arrival of
Mrs. Bute, which would not have caused any extreme delight at
another period, was hailed with pleasure now; Miss Crawley being
pleased at the notion of a gossip with her sister-in-law regarding
the late Lady Crawley, the funeral arrangements pending, and Sir
Pitt's abrupt proposal to Rebecca.

It was not until the old lady was fairly ensconced in her usual arm-
chair in the drawing-room, and the preliminary embraces and
inquiries had taken place between the ladies, that the conspirators
thought it advisable to submit her to the operation. Who has not
admired the artifices and delicate approaches with which women
"prepare" their friends for bad news? Miss Crawley's two friends
made such an apparatus of mystery before they broke the intelligence
to her, that they worked her up to the necessary degree of doubt and
alarm.

"And she refused Sir Pitt, my dear, dear Miss Crawley, prepare
yourself for it," Mrs. Bute said, "because—because she couldn't
help herself."

"Of course there was a reason," Miss Crawley answered. "She liked
somebody else. I told Briggs so yesterday."

"LIKES somebody else!" Briggs gasped. "O my dear friend, she is
married already."

"Married already," Mrs. Bute chimed in; and both sate with clasped
hands looking from each other at their victim.

"Send her to me, the instant she comes in. The little sly wretch:
how dared she not tell me?" cried out Miss Crawley.

"She won't come in soon. Prepare yourself, dear friend—she's gone
out for a long time—she's—she's gone altogether."

"Gracious goodness, and who's to make my chocolate? Send for her and
have her back; I desire that she come back," the old lady said.

"She decamped last night, Ma'am," cried Mrs. Bute.

"She left a letter for me," Briggs exclaimed. "She's married to—"

"Prepare her, for heaven's sake. Don't torture her, my dear Miss
Briggs."

"She's married to whom?" cries the spinster in a nervous fury.

"To—to a relation of—"

"She refused Sir Pitt," cried the victim. "Speak at once. Don't
drive me mad."

"O Ma'am—prepare her, Miss Briggs—she's married to Rawdon
Crawley."

"Rawdon married Rebecca—governess—nobod— Get out of my house, you
fool, you idiot—you stupid old Briggs—how dare you? You're in the
plot—you made him marry, thinking that I'd leave my money from him—
you did, Martha," the poor old lady screamed in hysteric sentences.

"I, Ma'am, ask a member of this family to marry a drawing-master's
daughter?"

"Her mother was a Montmorency," cried out the old lady, pulling at
the bell with all her might.

"Her mother was an opera girl, and she has been on the stage or
worse herself," said Mrs. Bute.

Miss Crawley gave a final scream, and fell back in a faint. They
were forced to take her back to the room which she had just quitted.
One fit of hysterics succeeded another. The doctor was sent for—
the apothecary arrived. Mrs. Bute took up the post of nurse by her
bedside. "Her relations ought to be round about her," that amiable
woman said.

She had scarcely been carried up to her room, when a new person
arrived to whom it was also necessary to break the news. This was
Sir Pitt. "Where's Becky?" he said, coming in. "Where's her traps?
She's coming with me to Queen's Crawley."

"Have you not heard the astonishing intelligence regarding her
surreptitious union?" Briggs asked.

"What's that to me?" Sir Pitt asked. "I know she's married. That
makes no odds. Tell her to come down at once, and not keep me."

"Are you not aware, sir," Miss Briggs asked, "that she has left our
roof, to the dismay of Miss Crawley, who is nearly killed by the
intelligence of Captain Rawdon's union with her?"

When Sir Pitt Crawley heard that Rebecca was married to his son, he
broke out into a fury of language, which it would do no good to
repeat in this place, as indeed it sent poor Briggs shuddering out
of the room; and with her we will shut the door upon the figure of
the frenzied old man, wild with hatred and insane with baffled
desire.

One day after he went to Queen's Crawley, he burst like a madman
into the room she had used when there—dashed open her boxes with
his foot, and flung about her papers, clothes, and other relics.
Miss Horrocks, the butler's daughter, took some of them. The
children dressed themselves and acted plays in the others. It was
but a few days after the poor mother had gone to her lonely burying-
place; and was laid, unwept and disregarded, in a vault full of
strangers.

"Suppose the old lady doesn't come to," Rawdon said to his little
wife, as they sate together in the snug little Brompton lodgings.
She had been trying the new piano all the morning. The new gloves
fitted her to a nicety; the new shawls became her wonderfully; the
new rings glittered on her little hands, and the new watch ticked at
her waist; "suppose she don't come round, eh, Becky?"

"I'LL make your fortune," she said; and Delilah patted Samson's
cheek.

"You can do anything," he said, kissing the little hand. "By Jove
you can; and we'll drive down to the Star and Garter, and dine, by
Jove."

How Captain Dobbin Bought a Piano

If there is any exhibition in all Vanity Fair which Satire and
Sentiment can visit arm in arm together; where you light on the
strangest contrasts laughable and tearful: where you may be gentle
and pathetic, or savage and cynical with perfect propriety: it is at
one of those public assemblies, a crowd of which are advertised
every day in the last page of the Times newspaper, and over which
the late Mr. George Robins used to preside with so much dignity.
There are very few London people, as I fancy, who have not attended
at these meetings, and all with a taste for moralizing must have
thought, with a sensation and interest not a little startling and
queer, of the day when their turn shall come too, and Mr. Hammerdown
will sell by the orders of Diogenes' assignees, or will be
instructed by the executors, to offer to public competition, the
library, furniture, plate, wardrobe, and choice cellar of wines of
Epicurus deceased.

Even with the most selfish disposition, the Vanity Fairian, as he
witnesses this sordid part of the obsequies of a departed friend,
can't but feel some sympathies and regret. My Lord Dives's remains
are in the family vault: the statuaries are cutting an inscription
veraciously commemorating his virtues, and the sorrows of his heir,
who is disposing of his goods. What guest at Dives's table can pass
the familiar house without a sigh?—the familiar house of which
the lights used to shine so cheerfully at seven o'clock, of which
the hall-doors opened so readily, of which the obsequious servants,
as you passed up the comfortable stair, sounded your name from
landing to landing, until it reached the apartment where jolly old
Dives welcomed his friends! What a number of them he had; and what
a noble way of entertaining them. How witty people used to be here
who were morose when they got out of the door; and how courteous and
friendly men who slandered and hated each other everywhere else! He
was pompous, but with such a cook what would one not swallow? he was
rather dull, perhaps, but would not such wine make any conversation
pleasant? We must get some of his Burgundy at any price, the
mourners cry at his club. "I got this box at old Dives's sale,"
Pincher says, handing it round, "one of Louis XV's mistresses—
pretty thing, is it not?—sweet miniature," and they talk of the way
in which young Dives is dissipating his fortune.

How changed the house is, though! The front is patched over with
bills, setting forth the particulars of the furniture in staring
capitals. They have hung a shred of carpet out of an upstairs
window—a half dozen of porters are lounging on the dirty steps—the
hall swarms with dingy guests of oriental countenance, who thrust
printed cards into your hand, and offer to bid. Old women and
amateurs have invaded the upper apartments, pinching the bed-
curtains, poking into the feathers, shampooing the mattresses, and
clapping the wardrobe drawers to and fro. Enterprising young
housekeepers are measuring the looking-glasses and hangings to see
if they will suit the new menage (Snob will brag for years that he
has purchased this or that at Dives's sale), and Mr. Hammerdown is
sitting on the great mahogany dining-tables, in the dining-room
below, waving the ivory hammer, and employing all the artifices of
eloquence, enthusiasm, entreaty, reason, despair; shouting to his
people; satirizing Mr. Davids for his sluggishness; inspiriting Mr.
Moss into action; imploring, commanding, bellowing, until down comes
the hammer like fate, and we pass to the next lot. O Dives, who
would ever have thought, as we sat round the broad table sparkling
with plate and spotless linen, to have seen such a dish at the head
of it as that roaring auctioneer?

It was rather late in the sale. The excellent drawing-room
furniture by the best makers; the rare and famous wines selected,
regardless of cost, and with the well-known taste of the purchaser;
the rich and complete set of family plate had been sold on the
previous days. Certain of the best wines (which all had a great
character among amateurs in the neighbourhood) had been purchased
for his master, who knew them very well, by the butler of our friend
John Osborne, Esquire, of Russell Square. A small portion of the
most useful articles of the plate had been bought by some young
stockbrokers from the City. And now the public being invited to the
purchase of minor objects, it happened that the orator on the table
was expatiating on the merits of a picture, which he sought to
recommend to his audience: it was by no means so select or numerous
a company as had attended the previous days of the auction.