“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 wore 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 zatusfy 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?”
“Oh, 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 ’ave
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.
“Oh, Sir Pitt!” she said. “Oh,
sir—I—I’m married already.”
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?
