Chapter: Private and Confidential

Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley, Russell Square, London.
(Free.--Pitt Crawley.)

MY DEAREST, SWEETEST AMELIA,

With what mingled joy and sorrow do I take up the pen to write to my
dearest friend!  Oh, what a change between to-day and yesterday! Now I
am friendless and alone; yesterday I was at home, in the sweet company
of a sister, whom I shall ever, ever cherish!

I will not tell you in what tears and sadness I passed the fatal night
in which I separated from you.  YOU went on Tuesday to joy and
happiness, with your mother and YOUR DEVOTED YOUNG SOLDIER by your
side; and I thought of you all night, dancing at the Perkins's, the
prettiest, I am sure, of all the young ladies at the Ball.  I was
brought by the groom in the old carriage to Sir Pitt Crawley's town
house, where, after John the groom had behaved most rudely and
insolently to me (alas! 'twas safe to insult poverty and misfortune!),
I was given over to Sir P.'s care, and made to pass the night in an old
gloomy bed, and by the side of a horrid gloomy old charwoman, who keeps
the house.  I did not sleep one single wink the whole night.

Sir Pitt is not what we silly girls, when we used to read Cecilia at
Chiswick, imagined a baronet must have been.  Anything, indeed, less
like Lord Orville cannot be imagined.  Fancy an old, stumpy, short,
vulgar, and very dirty man, in old clothes and shabby old gaiters, who
smokes a horrid pipe, and cooks his own horrid supper in a saucepan.
He speaks with a country accent, and swore a great deal at the old
charwoman, at the hackney coachman who drove us to the inn where the
coach went from, and on which I made the journey OUTSIDE FOR THE
GREATER PART OF THE WAY.

I was awakened at daybreak by the charwoman, and having arrived at the
inn, was at first placed inside the coach.  But, when we got to a place
called Leakington, where the rain began to fall very heavily--will you
believe it?--I was forced to come outside; for Sir Pitt is a proprietor
of the coach, and as a passenger came at Mudbury, who wanted an inside
place, I was obliged to go outside in the rain, where, however, a young
gentleman from Cambridge College sheltered me very kindly in one of his
several great coats.

This gentleman and the guard seemed to know Sir Pitt very well, and
laughed at him a great deal.  They both agreed in calling him an old
screw; which means a very stingy, avaricious person.  He never gives
any money to anybody, they said (and this meanness I hate); and the
young gentleman made me remark that we drove very slow for the last two
stages on the road, because Sir Pitt was on the box, and because he is
proprietor of the horses for this part of the journey.  "But won't I
flog 'em on to Squashmore, when I take the ribbons?" said the young
Cantab.  "And sarve 'em right, Master Jack," said the guard.  When I
comprehended the meaning of this phrase, and that Master Jack intended
to drive the rest of the way, and revenge himself on Sir Pitt's horses,
of course I laughed too.

A carriage and four splendid horses, covered with armorial bearings,
however, awaited us at Mudbury, four miles from Queen's Crawley, and we
made our entrance to the baronet's park in state.  There is a fine
avenue of a mile long leading to the house, and the woman at the
lodge-gate (over the pillars of which are a serpent and a dove, the
supporters of the Crawley arms), made us a number of curtsies as she
flung open the old iron carved doors, which are something like those at
odious Chiswick.

"There's an avenue," said Sir Pitt, "a mile long. There's six thousand
pound of timber in them there trees.  Do you call that nothing?" He
pronounced avenue--EVENUE, and nothing--NOTHINK, so droll; and he had a
Mr. Hodson, his hind from Mudbury, into the carriage with him, and they
talked about distraining, and selling up, and draining and subsoiling,
and a great deal about tenants and farming--much more than I could
understand.  Sam Miles had been caught poaching, and Peter Bailey had
gone to the workhouse at last. "Serve him right," said Sir Pitt; "him
and his family has been cheating me on that farm these hundred and
fifty years." Some old tenant, I suppose, who could not pay his rent.
Sir Pitt might have said "he and his family," to be sure; but rich
baronets do not need to be careful about grammar, as poor governesses
must be.

As we passed, I remarked a beautiful church-spire rising above some old
elms in the park; and before them, in the midst of a lawn, and some
outhouses, an old red house with tall chimneys covered with ivy, and
the windows shining in the sun.  "Is that your church, sir?" I said.

"Yes, hang it," (said Sir Pitt, only he used, dear, A MUCH WICKEDER
WORD); "how's Buty, Hodson? Buty's my brother Bute, my dear--my brother
the parson.  Buty and the Beast I call him, ha, ha!"

Hodson laughed too, and then looking more grave and nodding his head,
said, "I'm afraid he's better, Sir Pitt.  He was out on his pony
yesterday, looking at our corn."

"Looking after his tithes, hang'un (only he used the same wicked word).
Will brandy and water never kill him? He's as tough as old
whatdyecallum--old Methusalem."

Mr. Hodson laughed again.  "The young men is home from college. They've
whopped John Scroggins till he's well nigh dead."

"Whop my second keeper!" roared out Sir Pitt.

"He was on the parson's ground, sir," replied Mr. Hodson; and Sir Pitt
in a fury swore that if he ever caught 'em poaching on his ground, he'd
transport 'em, by the lord he would.  However, he said, "I've sold the
presentation of the living, Hodson; none of that breed shall get it, I
war'nt"; and Mr. Hodson said he was quite right: and I have no doubt
from this that the two brothers are at variance--as brothers often are,
and sisters too.  Don't you remember the two Miss Scratchleys at
Chiswick, how they used always to fight and quarrel--and Mary Box, how
she was always thumping Louisa?

Presently, seeing two little boys gathering sticks in the wood, Mr.
Hodson jumped out of the carriage, at Sir Pitt's order, and rushed upon
them with his whip.  "Pitch into 'em, Hodson," roared the baronet;
"flog their little souls out, and bring 'em up to the house, the
vagabonds; I'll commit 'em as sure as my name's Pitt." And presently we
heard Mr. Hodson's whip cracking on the shoulders of the poor little
blubbering wretches, and Sir Pitt, seeing that the malefactors were in
custody, drove on to the hall.

All the servants were ready to meet us, and . . .

Here, my dear, I was interrupted last night by a dreadful thumping at
my door: and who do you think it was? Sir Pitt Crawley in his night-cap
and dressing-gown, such a figure! As I shrank away from such a visitor,
he came forward and seized my candle.  "No candles after eleven
o'clock, Miss Becky," said he.  "Go to bed in the dark, you pretty
little hussy" (that is what he called me), "and unless you wish me to
come for the candle every night, mind and be in bed at eleven." And
with this, he and Mr. Horrocks the butler went off laughing.  You may
be sure I shall not encourage any more of their visits.  They let loose
two immense bloodhounds at night, which all last night were yelling and
howling at the moon.  "I call the dog Gorer," said Sir Pitt; "he's
killed a man that dog has, and is master of a bull, and the mother I
used to call Flora; but now I calls her Aroarer, for she's too old to
bite.  Haw, haw!"

Before the house of Queen's Crawley, which is an odious old-fashioned
red brick mansion, with tall chimneys and gables of the style of Queen
Bess, there is a terrace flanked by the family dove and serpent, and on
which the great hall-door opens.  And oh, my dear, the great hall I am
sure is as big and as glum as the great hall in the dear castle of
Udolpho.  It has a large fireplace, in which we might put half Miss
Pinkerton's school, and the grate is big enough to roast an ox at the
very least.  Round the room hang I don't know how many generations of
Crawleys, some with beards and ruffs, some with huge wigs and toes
turned out, some dressed in long straight stays and gowns that look as
stiff as towers, and some with long ringlets, and oh, my dear! scarcely
any stays at all.  At one end of the hall is the great staircase all in
black oak, as dismal as may be, and on either side are tall doors with
stags' heads over them, leading to the billiard-room and the library,
and the great yellow saloon and the morning-rooms.  I think there are
at least twenty bedrooms on the first floor; one of them has the bed in
which Queen Elizabeth slept; and I have been taken by my new pupils
through all these fine apartments this morning.  They are not rendered
less gloomy, I promise you, by having the shutters always shut; and
there is scarce one of the apartments, but when the light was let into
it, I expected to see a ghost in the room.  We have a schoolroom on the
second floor, with my bedroom leading into it on one side, and that of
the young ladies on the other.  Then there are Mr. Pitt's
apartments--Mr. Crawley, he is called--the eldest son, and Mr. Rawdon
Crawley's rooms--he is an officer like SOMEBODY, and away with his
regiment.  There is no want of room I assure you.  You might lodge all
the people in Russell Square in the house, I think, and have space to
spare.

Half an hour after our arrival, the great dinner-bell was rung, and I
came down with my two pupils (they are very thin insignificant little
chits of ten and eight years old).  I came down in your dear muslin
gown (about which that odious Mrs. Pinner was so rude, because you gave
it me); for I am to be treated as one of the family, except on company
days, when the young ladies and I are to dine upstairs.

Well, the great dinner-bell rang, and we all assembled in the little
drawing-room where my Lady Crawley sits.  She is the second Lady
Crawley, and mother of the young ladies.  She was an ironmonger's
daughter, and her marriage was thought a great match.  She looks as if
she had been handsome once, and her eyes are always weeping for the
loss of her beauty.  She is pale and meagre and high-shouldered, and
has not a word to say for herself, evidently.  Her stepson Mr. Crawley,
was likewise in the room.  He was in full dress, as pompous as an
undertaker.  He is pale, thin, ugly, silent; he has thin legs, no
chest, hay-coloured whiskers, and straw-coloured hair.  He is the very
picture of his sainted mother over the mantelpiece--Griselda of the
noble house of Binkie.

"This is the new governess, Mr. Crawley," said Lady Crawley, coming
forward and taking my hand.  "Miss Sharp."

"O!" said Mr. Crawley, and pushed his head once forward and began again
to read a great pamphlet with which he was busy.

"I hope you will be kind to my girls," said Lady Crawley, with her pink
eyes always full of tears.

"Law, Ma, of course she will," said the eldest: and I saw at a glance
that I need not be afraid of THAT woman. "My lady is served," says the
butler in black, in an immense white shirt-frill, that looked as if it
had been one of the Queen Elizabeth's ruffs depicted in the hall; and
so, taking Mr. Crawley's arm, she led the way to the dining-room,
whither I followed with my little pupils in each hand.

Sir Pitt was already in the room with a silver jug.  He had just been
to the cellar, and was in full dress too; that is, he had taken his
gaiters off, and showed his little dumpy legs in black worsted
stockings.  The sideboard was covered with glistening old plate--old
cups, both gold and silver; old salvers and cruet-stands, like Rundell
and Bridge's shop.  Everything on the table was in silver too, and two
footmen, with red hair and canary-coloured liveries, stood on either
side of the sideboard.

Mr. Crawley said a long grace, and Sir Pitt said amen, and the great
silver dish-covers were removed.

"What have we for dinner, Betsy?" said the Baronet.

"Mutton broth, I believe, Sir Pitt," answered Lady Crawley.

"Mouton aux navets," added the butler gravely (pronounce, if you
please, moutongonavvy); "and the soup is potage de mouton a
l'Ecossaise.  The side-dishes contain pommes de terre au naturel, and
choufleur a l'eau."

"Mutton's mutton," said the Baronet, "and a devilish good thing. What
SHIP was it, Horrocks, and when did you kill?"  "One of the black-faced
Scotch, Sir Pitt: we killed on Thursday."

"Who took any?"

"Steel, of Mudbury, took the saddle and two legs, Sir Pitt; but he says
the last was too young and confounded woolly, Sir Pitt."

"Will you take some potage, Miss ah--Miss Blunt? said Mr. Crawley.

"Capital Scotch broth, my dear," said Sir Pitt, "though they call it by
a French name."

"I believe it is the custom, sir, in decent society," said Mr. Crawley,
haughtily, "to call the dish as I have called it"; and it was served to
us on silver soup plates by the footmen in the canary coats, with the
mouton aux navets.  Then "ale and water" were brought, and served to us
young ladies in wine-glasses.  I am not a judge of ale, but I can say
with a clear conscience I prefer water.

While we were enjoying our repast, Sir Pitt took occasion to ask what
had become of the shoulders of the mutton.

"I believe they were eaten in the servants' hall," said my lady, humbly.

"They was, my lady," said Horrocks, "and precious little else we get
there neither."

Sir Pitt burst into a horse-laugh, and continued his conversation with
Mr. Horrocks.  "That there little black pig of the Kent sow's breed
must be uncommon fat now."

"It's not quite busting, Sir Pitt," said the butler with the gravest
air, at which Sir Pitt, and with him the young ladies, this time, began
to laugh violently.

"Miss Crawley, Miss Rose Crawley," said Mr. Crawley, "your laughter
strikes me as being exceedingly out of place."

"Never mind, my lord," said the Baronet, "we'll try the porker on
Saturday.  Kill un on Saturday morning, John Horrocks.  Miss Sharp
adores pork, don't you, Miss Sharp?"

And I think this is all the conversation that I remember at dinner.
When the repast was concluded a jug of hot water was placed before Sir
Pitt, with a case-bottle containing, I believe, rum.  Mr. Horrocks
served myself and my pupils with three little glasses of wine, and a
bumper was poured out for my lady.  When we retired, she took from her
work-drawer an enormous interminable piece of knitting; the young
ladies began to play at cribbage with a dirty pack of cards.  We had
but one candle lighted, but it was in a magnificent old silver
candlestick, and after a very few questions from my lady, I had my
choice of amusement between a volume of sermons, and a pamphlet on the
corn-laws, which Mr. Crawley had been reading before dinner.

So we sat for an hour until steps were heard.

"Put away the cards, girls," cried my lady, in a great tremor; "put
down Mr. Crawley's books, Miss Sharp"; and these orders had been
scarcely obeyed, when Mr. Crawley entered the room.

"We will resume yesterday's discourse, young ladies," said he, "and you
shall each read a page by turns; so that Miss a--Miss Short may have an
opportunity of hearing you"; and the poor girls began to spell a long
dismal sermon delivered at Bethesda Chapel, Liverpool, on behalf of the
mission for the Chickasaw Indians. Was it not a charming evening?

At ten the servants were told to call Sir Pitt and the household to
prayers.  Sir Pitt came in first, very much flushed, and rather
unsteady in his gait; and after him the butler, the canaries, Mr.
Crawley's man, three other men, smelling very much of the stable, and
four women, one of whom, I remarked, was very much overdressed, and who
flung me a look of great scorn as she plumped down on her knees.

After Mr. Crawley had done haranguing and expounding, we received our
candles, and then we went to bed; and then I was disturbed in my
writing, as I have described to my dearest sweetest Amelia.

Good night.  A thousand, thousand, thousand kisses!

Saturday.--This morning, at five, I heard the shrieking of the little
black pig.  Rose and Violet introduced me to it yesterday; and to the
stables, and to the kennel, and to the gardener, who was picking fruit
to send to market, and from whom they begged hard a bunch of hot-house
grapes; but he said that Sir Pitt had numbered every "Man Jack" of
them, and it would be as much as his place was worth to give any away.
The darling girls caught a colt in a paddock, and asked me if I would
ride, and began to ride themselves, when the groom, coming with horrid
oaths, drove them away.

Lady Crawley is always knitting the worsted.  Sir Pitt is always tipsy,
every night; and, I believe, sits with Horrocks, the butler. Mr.
Crawley always reads sermons in the evening, and in the morning is
locked up in his study, or else rides to Mudbury, on county business,
or to Squashmore, where he preaches, on Wednesdays and Fridays, to the
tenants there.

A hundred thousand grateful loves to your dear papa and mamma.  Is your
poor brother recovered of his rack-punch? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! How men
should beware of wicked punch!

Ever and ever thine own REBECCA

Everything considered, I think it is quite as well for our dear Amelia
Sedley, in Russell Square, that Miss Sharp and she are parted.  Rebecca
is a droll funny creature, to be sure; and those descriptions of the
poor lady weeping for the loss of her beauty, and the gentleman "with
hay-coloured whiskers and straw-coloured hair," are very smart,
doubtless, and show a great knowledge of the world.  That she might,
when on her knees, have been thinking of something better than Miss
Horrocks's ribbons, has possibly struck both of us.  But my kind reader
will please to remember that this history has "Vanity Fair" for a
title, and that Vanity Fair is a very vain, wicked, foolish place, full
of all sorts of humbugs and falsenesses and pretensions.  And while the
moralist, who is holding forth on the cover ( an accurate portrait of
your humble servant), professes to wear neither gown nor bands, but
only the very same long-eared livery in which his congregation is
arrayed: yet, look you, one is bound to speak the truth as far as one
knows it, whether one mounts a cap and bells or a shovel hat; and a
deal of disagreeable matter must come out in the course of such an
undertaking.

I have heard a brother of the story-telling trade, at Naples, preaching
to a pack of good-for-nothing honest lazy fellows by the sea-shore,
work himself up into such a rage and passion with some of the villains
whose wicked deeds he was describing and inventing, that the audience
could not resist it; and they and the poet together would burst out
into a roar of oaths and execrations against the fictitious monster of
the tale, so that the hat went round, and the bajocchi tumbled into it,
in the midst of a perfect storm of sympathy.

At the little Paris theatres, on the other hand, you will not only hear
the people yelling out "Ah gredin! Ah monstre:" and cursing the tyrant
of the play from the boxes; but the actors themselves positively refuse
to play the wicked parts, such as those of infames Anglais, brutal
Cossacks, and what not, and prefer to appear at a smaller salary, in
their real characters as loyal Frenchmen.  I set the two stories one
against the other, so that you may see that it is not from mere
mercenary motives that the present performer is desirous to show up and
trounce his villains; but because he has a sincere hatred of them,
which he cannot keep down, and which must find a vent in suitable abuse
and bad language.

I warn my "kyind friends," then, that I am going to tell a story of
harrowing villainy and complicated--but, as I trust, intensely
interesting--crime.  My rascals are no milk-and-water rascals, I
promise you.  When we come to the proper places we won't spare fine
language--No, no! But when we are going over the quiet country we must
perforce be calm.  A tempest in a slop-basin is absurd.  We will
reserve that sort of thing for the mighty ocean and the lonely
midnight.  The present Chapter is very mild.  Others--But we will not
anticipate THOSE.

And, as we bring our characters forward, I will ask leave, as a man and
a brother, not only to introduce them, but occasionally to step down
from the platform, and talk about them: if they are good and kindly, to
love them and shake them by the hand: if they are silly, to laugh at
them confidentially in the reader's sleeve: if they are wicked and
heartless, to abuse them in the strongest terms which politeness admits
of.

Otherwise you might fancy it was I who was sneering at the practice of
devotion, which Miss Sharp finds so ridiculous; that it was I who
laughed good-humouredly at the reeling old Silenus of a
baronet--whereas the laughter comes from one who has no reverence
except for prosperity, and no eye for anything beyond success. Such
people there are living and flourishing in the world--Faithless,
Hopeless, Charityless: let us have at them, dear friends, with might
and main. Some there are, and very successful too, mere quacks and
fools: and it was to combat and expose such as those, no doubt, that
Laughter was made.



Family Portraits

Sir Pitt Crawley was a philosopher with a taste for what is called low
life.  His first marriage with the daughter of the noble Binkie had
been made under the auspices of his parents; and as he often told Lady
Crawley in her lifetime she was such a confounded quarrelsome high-bred
jade that when she died he was hanged if he would ever take another of
her sort, at her ladyship's demise he kept his promise, and selected
for a second wife Miss Rose Dawson, daughter of Mr. John Thomas Dawson,
ironmonger, of Mudbury. What a happy woman was Rose to be my Lady
Crawley!

Let us set down the items of her happiness.  In the first place, she
gave up Peter Butt, a young man who kept company with her, and in
consequence of his disappointment in love, took to smuggling, poaching,
and a thousand other bad courses.  Then she quarrelled, as in duty
bound, with all the friends and intimates of her youth, who, of course,
could not be received by my Lady at Queen's Crawley--nor did she find
in her new rank and abode any persons who were willing to welcome her.
Who ever did? Sir Huddleston Fuddleston had three daughters who all
hoped to be Lady Crawley.  Sir Giles Wapshot's family were insulted
that one of the Wapshot girls had not the preference in the marriage,
and the remaining baronets of the county were indignant at their
comrade's misalliance.  Never mind the commoners, whom we will leave to
grumble anonymously.

Sir Pitt did not care, as he said, a brass farden for any one of them.
He had his pretty Rose, and what more need a man require than to please
himself? So he used to get drunk every night: to beat his pretty Rose
sometimes: to leave her in Hampshire when he went to London for the
parliamentary session, without a single friend in the wide world.  Even
Mrs. Bute Crawley, the Rector's wife, refused to visit her, as she said
she would never give the pas to a tradesman's daughter.

As the only endowments with which Nature had gifted Lady Crawley were
those of pink cheeks and a white skin, and as she had no sort of
character, nor talents, nor opinions, nor occupations, nor amusements,
nor that vigour of soul and ferocity of temper which often falls to the
lot of entirely foolish women, her hold upon Sir Pitt's affections was
not very great.  Her roses faded out of her cheeks, and the pretty
freshness left her figure after the birth of a couple of children, and
she became a mere machine in her husband's house of no more use than
the late Lady Crawley's grand piano. Being a light-complexioned woman,
she wore light clothes, as most blondes will, and appeared, in
preference, in draggled sea-green, or slatternly sky-blue.  She worked
that worsted day and night, or other pieces like it.  She had
counterpanes in the course of a few years to all the beds in Crawley.
She had a small flower-garden, for which she had rather an affection;
but beyond this no other like or disliking.  When her husband was rude
to her she was apathetic: whenever he struck her she cried.  She had
not character enough to take to drinking, and moaned about, slipshod
and in curl-papers all day.  O Vanity Fair--Vanity Fair! This might
have been, but for you, a cheery lass--Peter Butt and Rose a happy man
and wife, in a snug farm, with a hearty family; and an honest portion
of pleasures, cares, hopes and struggles--but a title and a coach and
four are toys more precious than happiness in Vanity Fair: and if Harry
the Eighth or Bluebeard were alive now, and wanted a tenth wife, do you
suppose he could not get the prettiest girl that shall be presented
this season?

The languid dulness of their mamma did not, as it may be supposed,
awaken much affection in her little daughters, but they were very happy
in the servants' hall and in the stables; and the Scotch gardener
having luckily a good wife and some good children, they got a little
wholesome society and instruction in his lodge, which was the only
education bestowed upon them until Miss Sharp came.

Her engagement was owing to the remonstrances of Mr. Pitt Crawley, the
only friend or protector Lady Crawley ever had, and the only person,
besides her children, for whom she entertained a little feeble
attachment.  Mr. Pitt took after the noble Binkies, from whom he was
descended, and was a very polite and proper gentleman.  When he grew to
man's estate, and came back from Christchurch, he began to reform the
slackened discipline of the hall, in spite of his father, who stood in
awe of him.  He was a man of such rigid refinement, that he would have
starved rather than have dined without a white neckcloth.  Once, when
just from college, and when Horrocks the butler brought him a letter
without placing it previously on a tray, he gave that domestic a look,
and administered to him a speech so cutting, that Horrocks ever after
trembled before him; the whole household bowed to him: Lady Crawley's
curl-papers came off earlier when he was at home: Sir Pitt's muddy
gaiters disappeared; and if that incorrigible old man still adhered to
other old habits, he never fuddled himself with rum-and-water in his
son's presence, and only talked to his servants in a very reserved and
polite manner; and those persons remarked that Sir Pitt never swore at
Lady Crawley while his son was in the room.

It was he who taught the butler to say, "My lady is served," and who
insisted on handing her ladyship in to dinner.  He seldom spoke to her,
but when he did it was with the most powerful respect; and he never let
her quit the apartment without rising in the most stately manner to
open the door, and making an elegant bow at her egress.

At Eton he was called Miss Crawley; and there, I am sorry to say, his
younger brother Rawdon used to lick him violently.  But though his
parts were not brilliant, he made up for his lack of talent by
meritorious industry, and was never known, during eight years at
school, to be subject to that punishment which it is generally thought
none but a cherub can escape.

At college his career was of course highly creditable. And here he
prepared himself for public life, into which he was to be introduced by
the patronage of his grandfather, Lord Binkie, by studying the ancient
and modern orators with great assiduity, and by speaking unceasingly at
the debating societies.  But though he had a fine flux of words, and
delivered his little voice with great pomposity and pleasure to
himself, and never advanced any sentiment or opinion which was not
perfectly trite and stale, and supported by a Latin quotation; yet he
failed somehow, in spite of a mediocrity which ought to have insured
any man a success.  He did not even get the prize poem, which all his
friends said he was sure of.

After leaving college he became Private Secretary to Lord Binkie, and
was then appointed Attache to the Legation at Pumpernickel, which post
he filled with perfect honour, and brought home despatches, consisting
of Strasburg pie, to the Foreign Minister of the day.  After remaining
ten years Attache (several years after the lamented Lord Binkie's
demise), and finding the advancement slow, he at length gave up the
diplomatic service in some disgust, and began to turn country gentleman.

He wrote a pamphlet on Malt on returning to England (for he was an
ambitious man, and always liked to be before the public), and took a
strong part in the Negro Emancipation question.  Then he became a
friend of Mr. Wilberforce's, whose politics he admired, and had that
famous correspondence with the Reverend Silas Hornblower, on the
Ashantee Mission.  He was in London, if not for the Parliament session,
at least in May, for the religious meetings.  In the country he was a
magistrate, and an active visitor and speaker among those destitute of
religious instruction.  He was said to be paying his addresses to Lady
Jane Sheepshanks, Lord Southdown's third daughter, and whose sister,
Lady Emily, wrote those sweet tracts, "The Sailor's True Binnacle," and
"The Applewoman of Finchley Common."

Miss Sharp's accounts of his employment at Queen's Crawley were not
caricatures.  He subjected the servants there to the devotional
exercises before mentioned, in which (and so much the better) he
brought his father to join.  He patronised an Independent meeting-house
in Crawley parish, much to the indignation of his uncle the Rector, and
to the consequent delight of Sir Pitt, who was induced to go himself
once or twice, which occasioned some violent sermons at Crawley parish
church, directed point-blank at the Baronet's old Gothic pew there.
Honest Sir Pitt, however, did not feel the force of these discourses,
as he always took his nap during sermon-time.

Mr. Crawley was very earnest, for the good of the nation and of the
Christian world, that the old gentleman should yield him up his place
in Parliament; but this the elder constantly refused to do. Both were
of course too prudent to give up the fifteen hundred a year which was
brought in by the second seat (at this period filled by Mr. Quadroon,
with carte blanche on the Slave question); indeed the family estate was
much embarrassed, and the income drawn from the borough was of great
use to the house of Queen's Crawley.

It had never recovered the heavy fine imposed upon Walpole Crawley,
first baronet, for peculation in the Tape and Sealing Wax Office. Sir
Walpole was a jolly fellow, eager to seize and to spend money (alieni
appetens, sui profusus, as Mr. Crawley would remark with a sigh), and
in his day beloved by all the county for the constant drunkenness and
hospitality which was maintained at Queen's Crawley. The cellars were
filled with burgundy then, the kennels with hounds, and the stables
with gallant hunters; now, such horses as Queen's Crawley possessed
went to plough, or ran in the Trafalgar Coach; and it was with a team
of these very horses, on an off-day, that Miss Sharp was brought to the
Hall; for boor as he was, Sir Pitt was a stickler for his dignity while
at home, and seldom drove out but with four horses, and though he dined
off boiled mutton, had always three footmen to serve it.

If mere parsimony could have made a man rich, Sir Pitt Crawley might
have become very wealthy--if he had been an attorney in a country town,
with no capital but his brains, it is very possible that he would have
turned them to good account, and might have achieved for himself a very
considerable influence and competency. But he was unluckily endowed
with a good name and a large though encumbered estate, both of which
went rather to injure than to advance him.  He had a taste for law,
which cost him many thousands yearly; and being a great deal too clever
to be robbed, as he said, by any single agent, allowed his affairs to
be mismanaged by a dozen, whom he all equally mistrusted. He was such a
sharp landlord, that he could hardly find any but bankrupt tenants; and
such a close farmer, as to grudge almost the seed to the ground,
whereupon revengeful Nature grudged him the crops which she granted to
more liberal husbandmen. He speculated in every possible way; he worked
mines; bought canal-shares; horsed coaches; took government contracts,
and was the busiest man and magistrate of his county.  As he would not
pay honest agents at his granite quarry, he had the satisfaction of
finding that four overseers ran away, and took fortunes with them to
America.  For want of proper precautions, his coal-mines filled with
water: the government flung his contract of damaged beef upon his
hands: and for his coach-horses, every mail proprietor in the kingdom
knew that he lost more horses than any man in the country, from
underfeeding and buying cheap. In disposition he was sociable, and far
from being proud; nay, he rather preferred the society of a farmer or a
horse-dealer to that of a gentleman, like my lord, his son: he was fond
of drink, of swearing, of joking with the farmers' daughters: he was
never known to give away a shilling or to do a good action, but was of
a pleasant, sly, laughing mood, and would cut his joke and drink his
glass with a tenant and sell him up the next day; or have his laugh
with the poacher he was transporting with equal good humour.  His
politeness for the fair sex has already been hinted at by Miss Rebecca
Sharp--in a word, the whole baronetage, peerage, commonage of England,
did not contain a more cunning, mean, selfish, foolish, disreputable
old man.  That blood-red hand of Sir Pitt Crawley's would be in
anybody's pocket except his own; and it is with grief and pain, that,
as admirers of the British aristocracy, we find ourselves obliged to
admit the existence of so many ill qualities in a person whose name is
in Debrett.

One great cause why Mr. Crawley had such a hold over the affections of
his father, resulted from money arrangements.  The Baronet owed his son
a sum of money out of the jointure of his mother, which he did not find
it convenient to pay; indeed he had an almost invincible repugnance to
paying anybody, and could only be brought by force to discharge his
debts.  Miss Sharp calculated (for she became, as we shall hear
speedily, inducted into most of the secrets of the family) that the
mere payment of his creditors cost the honourable Baronet several
hundreds yearly; but this was a delight he could not forego; he had a
savage pleasure in making the poor wretches wait, and in shifting from
court to court and from term to term the period of satisfaction.
What's the good of being in Parliament, he said, if you must pay your
debts? Hence, indeed, his position as a senator was not a little useful
to him.

Vanity Fair--Vanity Fair!  Here was a man, who could not spell, and did
not care to read--who had the habits and the cunning of a boor: whose
aim in life was pettifogging: who never had a taste, or emotion, or
enjoyment, but what was sordid and foul; and yet he had rank, and
honours, and power, somehow: and was a dignitary of the land, and a
pillar of the state.  He was high sheriff, and rode in a golden coach.
Great ministers and statesmen courted him; and in Vanity Fair he had a
higher place than the most brilliant genius or spotless virtue.

Sir Pitt had an unmarried half-sister who inherited her mother's large
fortune, and though the Baronet proposed to borrow this money of her on
mortgage, Miss Crawley declined the offer, and preferred the security
of the funds. She had signified, however, her intention of leaving her
inheritance between Sir Pitt's second son and the family at the
Rectory, and had once or twice paid the debts of Rawdon Crawley in his
career at college and in the army. Miss Crawley was, in consequence, an
object of great respect when she came to Queen's Crawley, for she had a
balance at her banker's which would have made her beloved anywhere.

What a dignity it gives an old lady, that balance at the banker's! How
tenderly we look at her faults if she is a relative (and may every
reader have a score of such), what a kind good-natured old creature we
find her!  How the junior partner of Hobbs and Dobbs leads her smiling
to the carriage with the lozenge upon it, and the fat wheezy coachman!
How, when she comes to pay us a visit, we generally find an opportunity
to let our friends know her station in the world!  We say (and with
perfect truth) I wish I had Miss MacWhirter's signature to a cheque for
five thousand pounds.  She wouldn't miss it, says your wife.  She is my
aunt, say you, in an easy careless way, when your friend asks if Miss
MacWhirter is any relative.  Your wife is perpetually sending her
little testimonies of affection, your little girls work endless worsted
baskets, cushions, and footstools for her.  What a good fire there is
in her room when she comes to pay you a visit, although your wife laces
her stays without one!  The house during her stay assumes a festive,
neat, warm, jovial, snug appearance not visible at other seasons. You
yourself, dear sir, forget to go to sleep after dinner, and find
yourself all of a sudden (though you invariably lose) very fond of a
rubber.  What good dinners you have--game every day, Malmsey-Madeira,
and no end of fish from London.  Even the servants in the kitchen share
in the general prosperity; and, somehow, during the stay of Miss
MacWhirter's fat coachman, the beer is grown much stronger, and the
consumption of tea and sugar in the nursery (where her maid takes her
meals) is not regarded in the least.  Is it so, or is it not so?  I
appeal to the middle classes.  Ah, gracious powers! I wish you would
send me an old aunt--a maiden aunt--an aunt with a lozenge on her
carriage, and a front of light coffee-coloured hair--how my children
should work workbags for her, and my Julia and I would make her
comfortable! Sweet--sweet vision! Foolish--foolish dream!



Miss Sharp Begins to Make Friends

And now, being received as a member of the amiable family whose
portraits we have sketched in the foregoing pages, it became naturally
Rebecca's duty to make herself, as she said, agreeable to her
benefactors, and to gain their confidence to the utmost of her power.
Who can but admire this quality of gratitude in an unprotected orphan;
and, if there entered some degree of selfishness into her calculations,
who can say but that her prudence was perfectly justifiable?  "I am
alone in the world," said the friendless girl.  "I have nothing to look
for but what my own labour can bring me; and while that little
pink-faced chit Amelia, with not half my sense, has ten thousand pounds
and an establishment secure, poor Rebecca (and my figure is far better
than hers) has only herself and her own wits to trust to.  Well, let us
see if my wits cannot provide me with an honourable maintenance, and if
some day or the other I cannot show Miss Amelia my real superiority
over her. Not that I dislike poor Amelia: who can dislike such a
harmless, good-natured creature?--only it will be a fine day when I can
take my place above her in the world, as why, indeed, should I not?"
Thus it was that our little romantic friend formed visions of the
future for herself--nor must we be scandalised that, in all her castles
in the air, a husband was the principal inhabitant.  Of what else have
young ladies to think, but husbands? Of what else do their dear mammas
think?  "I must be my own mamma," said Rebecca; not without a tingling
consciousness of defeat, as she thought over her little misadventure
with Jos Sedley.

So she wisely determined to render her position with the Queen's
Crawley family comfortable and secure, and to this end resolved to make
friends of every one around her who could at all interfere with her
comfort.

As my Lady Crawley was not one of these personages, and a woman,
moreover, so indolent and void of character as not to be of the least
consequence in her own house, Rebecca soon found that it was not at all
necessary to cultivate her good will--indeed, impossible to gain it.
She used to talk to her pupils about their "poor mamma"; and, though
she treated that lady with every demonstration of cool respect, it was
to the rest of the family that she wisely directed the chief part of
her attentions.

With the young people, whose applause she thoroughly gained, her method
was pretty simple.  She did not pester their young brains with too much
learning, but, on the contrary, let them have their own way in regard
to educating themselves; for what instruction is more effectual than
self-instruction? The eldest was rather fond of books, and as there was
in the old library at Queen's Crawley a considerable provision of works
of light literature of the last century, both in the French and English
languages (they had been purchased by the Secretary of the Tape and
Sealing Wax Office at the period of his disgrace), and as nobody ever
troubled the bookshelves but herself, Rebecca was enabled agreeably,
and, as it were, in playing, to impart a great deal of instruction to
Miss Rose Crawley.

She and Miss Rose thus read together many delightful French and English
works, among which may be mentioned those of the learned Dr. Smollett,
of the ingenious Mr. Henry Fielding, of the graceful and fantastic
Monsieur Crebillon the younger, whom our immortal poet Gray so much
admired, and of the universal Monsieur de Voltaire. Once, when Mr.
Crawley asked what the young people were reading, the governess replied
"Smollett." "Oh, Smollett," said Mr. Crawley, quite satisfied.  "His
history is more dull, but by no means so dangerous as that of Mr. Hume.
It is history you are reading?" "Yes," said Miss Rose; without,
however, adding that it was the history of Mr. Humphrey Clinker.  On
another occasion he was rather scandalised at finding his sister with a
book of French plays; but as the governess remarked that it was for the
purpose of acquiring the French idiom in conversation, he was fain to
be content.  Mr. Crawley, as a diplomatist, was exceedingly proud of
his own skill in speaking the French language (for he was of the world
still), and not a little pleased with the compliments which the
governess continually paid him upon his proficiency.

Miss Violet's tastes were, on the contrary, more rude and boisterous
than those of her sister.  She knew the sequestered spots where the
hens laid their eggs.  She could climb a tree to rob the nests of the
feathered songsters of their speckled spoils.  And her pleasure was to
ride the young colts, and to scour the plains like Camilla. She was the
favourite of her father and of the stablemen. She was the darling, and
withal the terror of the cook; for she discovered the haunts of the
jam-pots, and would attack them when they were within her reach. She
and her sister were engaged in constant battles.  Any of which
peccadilloes, if Miss Sharp discovered, she did not tell them to Lady
Crawley; who would have told them to the father, or worse, to Mr.
Crawley; but promised not to tell if Miss Violet would be a good girl
and love her governess.

With Mr. Crawley Miss Sharp was respectful and obedient.  She used to
consult him on passages of French which she could not understand,
though her mother was a Frenchwoman, and which he would construe to her
satisfaction: and, besides giving her his aid in profane literature, he
was kind enough to select for her books of a more serious tendency, and
address to her much of his conversation.  She admired, beyond measure,
his speech at the Quashimaboo-Aid Society; took an interest in his
pamphlet on malt: was often affected, even to tears, by his discourses
of an evening, and would say--"Oh, thank you, sir," with a sigh, and a
look up to heaven, that made him occasionally condescend to shake hands
with her.  "Blood is everything, after all," would that aristocratic
religionist say. "How Miss Sharp is awakened by my words, when not one
of the people here is touched.  I am too fine for them--too delicate. I
must familiarise my style--but she understands it.  Her mother was a
Montmorency."

Indeed it was from this famous family, as it appears, that Miss Sharp,
by the mother's side, was descended. Of course she did not say that her
mother had been on the stage; it would have shocked Mr. Crawley's
religious scruples.  How many noble emigres had this horrid revolution
plunged in poverty!  She had several stories about her ancestors ere
she had been many months in the house; some of which Mr. Crawley
happened to find in D'Hozier's dictionary, which was in the library,
and which strengthened his belief in their truth, and in the
high-breeding of Rebecca.  Are we to suppose from this curiosity and
prying into dictionaries, could our heroine suppose that Mr. Crawley
was interested in her?--no, only in a friendly way.  Have we not stated
that he was attached to Lady Jane Sheepshanks?

He took Rebecca to task once or twice about the propriety of playing at
backgammon with Sir Pitt, saying that it was a godless amusement, and
that she would be much better engaged in reading "Thrump's Legacy," or
"The Blind Washerwoman of Moorfields," or any work of a more serious
nature; but Miss Sharp said her dear mother used often to play the same
game with the old Count de Trictrac and the venerable Abbe du Cornet,
and so found an excuse for this and other worldly amusements.

But it was not only by playing at backgammon with the Baronet, that the
little governess rendered herself agreeable to her employer. She found
many different ways of being useful to him.  She read over, with
indefatigable patience, all those law papers, with which, before she
came to Queen's Crawley, he had promised to entertain her.  She
volunteered to copy many of his letters, and adroitly altered the
spelling of them so as to suit the usages of the present day.  She
became interested in everything appertaining to the estate, to the
farm, the park, the garden, and the stables; and so delightful a
companion was she, that the Baronet would seldom take his
after-breakfast walk without her (and the children of course), when she
would give her advice as to the trees which were to be lopped in the
shrubberies, the garden-beds to be dug, the crops which were to be cut,
the horses which were to go to cart or plough. Before she had been a
year at Queen's Crawley she had quite won the Baronet's confidence; and
the conversation at the dinner-table, which before used to be held
between him and Mr. Horrocks the butler, was now almost exclusively
between Sir Pitt and Miss Sharp. She was almost mistress of the house
when Mr. Crawley was absent, but conducted herself in her new and
exalted situation with such circumspection and modesty as not to offend
the authorities of the kitchen and stable, among whom her behaviour was
always exceedingly modest and affable.  She was quite a different
person from the haughty, shy, dissatisfied little girl whom we have
known previously, and this change of temper proved great prudence, a
sincere desire of amendment, or at any rate great moral courage on her
part.  Whether it was the heart which dictated this new system of
complaisance and humility adopted by our Rebecca, is to be proved by
her after-history.  A system of hypocrisy, which lasts through whole
years, is one seldom satisfactorily practised by a person of
one-and-twenty; however, our readers will recollect, that, though young
in years, our heroine was old in life and experience, and we have
written to no purpose if they have not discovered that she was a very
clever woman.

The elder and younger son of the house of Crawley were, like the
gentleman and lady in the weather-box, never at home together--they
hated each other cordially: indeed, Rawdon Crawley, the dragoon, had a
great contempt for the establishment altogether, and seldom came
thither except when his aunt paid her annual visit.

The great good quality of this old lady has been mentioned.  She
possessed seventy thousand pounds, and had almost adopted Rawdon. She
disliked her elder nephew exceedingly, and despised him as a milksop.
In return he did not hesitate to state that her soul was irretrievably
lost, and was of opinion that his brother's chance in the next world
was not a whit better.  "She is a godless woman of the world," would
Mr. Crawley say; "she lives with atheists and Frenchmen.  My mind
shudders when I think of her awful, awful situation, and that, near as
she is to the grave, she should be so given up to vanity,
licentiousness, profaneness, and folly." In fact, the old lady declined
altogether to hear his hour's lecture of an evening; and when she came
to Queen's Crawley alone, he was obliged to pretermit his usual
devotional exercises.

"Shut up your sarmons, Pitt, when Miss Crawley comes down," said his
father; "she has written to say that she won't stand the preachifying."

"O, sir! consider the servants."

"The servants be hanged," said Sir Pitt; and his son thought even worse
would happen were they deprived of the benefit of his instruction.

"Why, hang it, Pitt!" said the father to his remonstrance. "You
wouldn't be such a flat as to let three thousand a year go out of the
family?"

"What is money compared to our souls, sir?" continued Mr. Crawley.

"You mean that the old lady won't leave the money to you?"--and who
knows but it was Mr. Crawley's meaning?

Old Miss Crawley was certainly one of the reprobate. She had a snug
little house in Park Lane, and, as she ate and drank a great deal too
much during the season in London, she went to Harrowgate or Cheltenham
for the summer.  She was the most hospitable and jovial of old vestals,
and had been a beauty in her day, she said. (All old women were
beauties once, we very well know.) She was a bel esprit, and a dreadful
Radical for those days.  She had been in France (where St. Just, they
say, inspired her with an unfortunate passion), and loved, ever after,
French novels, French cookery, and French wines.  She read Voltaire,
and had Rousseau by heart; talked very lightly about divorce, and most
energetically of the rights of women.  She had pictures of Mr. Fox in
every room in the house: when that statesman was in opposition, I am
not sure that she had not flung a main with him; and when he came into
office, she took great credit for bringing over to him Sir Pitt and his
colleague for Queen's Crawley, although Sir Pitt would have come over
himself, without any trouble on the honest lady's part.  It is needless
to say that Sir Pitt was brought to change his views after the death of
the great Whig statesman.

This worthy old lady took a fancy to Rawdon Crawley when a boy, sent
him to Cambridge (in opposition to his brother at Oxford), and, when
the young man was requested by the authorities of the first-named
University to quit after a residence of two years, she bought him his
commission in the Life Guards Green.

A perfect and celebrated "blood," or dandy about town, was this young
officer.  Boxing, rat-hunting, the fives court, and four-in-hand
driving were then the fashion of our British aristocracy; and he was an
adept in all these noble sciences.  And though he belonged to the
household troops, who, as it was their duty to rally round the Prince
Regent, had not shown their valour in foreign service yet, Rawdon
Crawley had already (apropos of play, of which he was immoderately
fond) fought three bloody duels, in which he gave ample proofs of his
contempt for death.

"And for what follows after death," would Mr. Crawley observe, throwing
his gooseberry-coloured eyes up to the ceiling.  He was always thinking
of his brother's soul, or of the souls of those who differed with him
in opinion: it is a sort of comfort which many of the serious give
themselves.

Silly, romantic Miss Crawley, far from being horrified at the courage
of her favourite, always used to pay his debts after his duels; and
would not listen to a word that was whispered against his morality.
"He will sow his wild oats," she would say, "and is worth far more than
that puling hypocrite of a brother of his."



Arcadian Simplicity

Besides these honest folks at the Hall (whose simplicity and sweet
rural purity surely show the advantage of a country life over a town
one), we must introduce the reader to their relatives and neighbours at
the Rectory, Bute Crawley and his wife.

The Reverend Bute Crawley was a tall, stately, jolly, shovel-hatted
man, far more popular in his county than the Baronet his brother. At
college he pulled stroke-oar in the Christchurch boat, and had thrashed
all the best bruisers of the "town." He carried his taste for boxing
and athletic exercises into private life; there was not a fight within
twenty miles at which he was not present, nor a race, nor a coursing
match, nor a regatta, nor a ball, nor an election, nor a visitation
dinner, nor indeed a good dinner in the whole county, but he found
means to attend it.  You might see his bay mare and gig-lamps a score
of miles away from his Rectory House, whenever there was any
dinner-party at Fuddleston, or at Roxby, or at Wapshot Hall, or at the
great lords of the county, with all of whom he was intimate.  He had a
fine voice; sang "A southerly wind and a cloudy sky"; and gave the
"whoop" in chorus with general applause.  He rode to hounds in a
pepper-and-salt frock, and was one of the best fishermen in the county.

Mrs. Crawley, the rector's wife, was a smart little body, who wrote
this worthy divine's sermons.  Being of a domestic turn, and keeping
the house a great deal with her daughters, she ruled absolutely within
the Rectory, wisely giving her husband full liberty without. He was
welcome to come and go, and dine abroad as many days as his fancy
dictated, for Mrs. Crawley was a saving woman and knew the price of
port wine.  Ever since Mrs. Bute carried off the young Rector of
Queen's Crawley (she was of a good family, daughter of the late
Lieut.-Colonel Hector McTavish, and she and her mother played for Bute
and won him at Harrowgate), she had been a prudent and thrifty wife to
him.  In spite of her care, however, he was always in debt.  It took
him at least ten years to pay off his college bills contracted during
his father's lifetime. In the year 179-, when he was just clear of
these incumbrances, he gave the odds of 100 to 1 (in twenties) against
Kangaroo, who won the Derby.  The Rector was obliged to take up the
money at a ruinous interest, and had been struggling ever since.  His
sister helped him with a hundred now and then, but of course his great
hope was in her death--when "hang it" (as he would say), "Matilda must
leave me half her money."

So that the Baronet and his brother had every reason which two brothers
possibly can have for being by the ears.  Sir Pitt had had the better
of Bute in innumerable family transactions.  Young Pitt not only did
not hunt, but set up a meeting house under his uncle's very nose.
Rawdon, it was known, was to come in for the bulk of Miss Crawley's
property.  These money transactions--these speculations in life and
death--these silent battles for reversionary spoil--make brothers very
loving towards each other in Vanity Fair.  I, for my part, have known a
five-pound note to interpose and knock up a half century's attachment
between two brethren; and can't but admire, as I think what a fine and
durable thing Love is among worldly people.

It cannot be supposed that the arrival of such a personage as Rebecca
at Queen's Crawley, and her gradual establishment in the good graces of
all people there, could be unremarked by Mrs. Bute Crawley.  Mrs. Bute,
who knew how many days the sirloin of beef lasted at the Hall; how much
linen was got ready at the great wash; how many peaches were on the
south wall; how many doses her ladyship took when she was ill--for such
points are matters of intense interest to certain persons in the
country--Mrs. Bute, I say, could not pass over the Hall governess
without making every inquiry respecting her history and character.
There was always the best understanding between the servants at the
Rectory and the Hall. There was always a good glass of ale in the
kitchen of the former place for the Hall people, whose ordinary drink
was very small--and, indeed, the Rector's lady knew exactly how much
malt went to every barrel of Hall beer--ties of relationship existed
between the Hall and Rectory domestics, as between their masters; and
through these channels each family was perfectly well acquainted with
the doings of the other.  That, by the way, may be set down as a
general remark.  When you and your brother are friends, his doings are
indifferent to you.  When you have quarrelled, all his outgoings and
incomings you know, as if you were his spy.

Very soon then after her arrival, Rebecca began to take a regular place
in Mrs. Crawley's bulletin from the Hall. It was to this effect: "The
black porker's killed--weighed x stone--salted the sides--pig's pudding
and leg of pork for dinner.  Mr. Cramp from Mudbury, over with Sir Pitt
about putting John Blackmore in gaol--Mr. Pitt at meeting (with all the
names of the people who attended)--my lady as usual--the young ladies
with the governess."

Then the report would come--the new governess be a rare manager--Sir
Pitt be very sweet on her--Mr. Crawley too--He be reading tracts to
her--"What an abandoned wretch!" said little, eager, active,
black-faced Mrs. Bute Crawley.

Finally, the reports were that the governess had "come round"
everybody, wrote Sir Pitt's letters, did his business, managed his
accounts--had the upper hand of the whole house, my lady, Mr. Crawley,
the girls and all--at which Mrs. Crawley declared she was an artful
hussy, and had some dreadful designs in view.  Thus the doings at the
Hall were the great food for conversation at the Rectory, and Mrs.
Bute's bright eyes spied out everything that took place in the enemy's
camp--everything and a great deal besides.


Mrs. Bute Crawley to Miss Pinkerton, The Mall, Chiswick.

Rectory, Queen's Crawley, December--.

My Dear Madam,--Although it is so many years since I profited by your
delightful and invaluable instructions, yet I have ever retained the
FONDEST and most reverential regard for Miss Pinkerton, and DEAR
Chiswick.  I hope your health is GOOD.  The world and the cause of
education cannot afford to lose Miss Pinkerton for MANY MANY YEARS.
When my friend, Lady Fuddleston, mentioned that her dear girls required
an instructress (I am too poor to engage a governess for mine, but was
I not educated at Chiswick?)--"Who," I exclaimed, "can we consult but
the excellent, the incomparable Miss Pinkerton?" In a word, have you,
dear madam, any ladies on your list, whose services might be made
available to my kind friend and neighbour? I assure you she will take
no governess BUT OF YOUR CHOOSING.

My dear husband is pleased to say that he likes EVERYTHING WHICH COMES
FROM MISS PINKERTON'S SCHOOL.  How I wish I could present him and my
beloved girls to the friend of my youth, and the ADMIRED of the great
lexicographer of our country! If you ever travel into Hampshire, Mr.
Crawley begs me to say, he hopes you will adorn our RURAL RECTORY with
your presence.  'Tis the humble but happy home of

Your affectionate Martha Crawley

P.S.  Mr. Crawley's brother, the baronet, with whom we are not, alas!
upon those terms of UNITY in which it BECOMES BRETHREN TO DWELL, has a
governess for his little girls, who, I am told, had the good fortune to
be educated at Chiswick.  I hear various reports of her; and as I have
the tenderest interest in my dearest little nieces, whom I wish, in
spite of family differences, to see among my own children--and as I
long to be attentive to ANY PUPIL OF YOURS--do, my dear Miss Pinkerton,
tell me the history of this young lady, whom, for YOUR SAKE, I am most
anxious to befriend.--M. C.


Miss Pinkerton to Mrs. Bute Crawley.

Johnson House, Chiswick, Dec. 18--.

Dear Madam,--I have the honour to acknowledge your polite
communication, to which I promptly reply. 'Tis most gratifying to one
in my most arduous position to find that my maternal cares have
elicited a responsive affection; and to recognize in the amiable Mrs.
Bute Crawley my excellent pupil of former years, the sprightly and
accomplished Miss Martha MacTavish.  I am happy to have under my charge
now the daughters of many of those who were your contemporaries at my
establishment--what pleasure it would give me if your own beloved young
ladies had need of my instructive superintendence!

Presenting my respectful compliments to Lady Fuddleston, I have the
honour (epistolarily) to introduce to her ladyship my two friends, Miss
Tuffin and Miss Hawky.

Either of these young ladies is PERFECTLY QUALIFIED to instruct in
Greek, Latin, and the rudiments of Hebrew; in mathematics and history;
in Spanish, French, Italian, and geography; in music, vocal and
instrumental; in dancing, without the aid of a master; and in the
elements of natural sciences.  In the use of the globes both are
proficients.  In addition to these Miss Tuffin, who is daughter of the
late Reverend Thomas Tuffin (Fellow of Corpus College, Cambridge), can
instruct in the Syriac language, and the elements of Constitutional
law. But as she is only eighteen years of age, and of exceedingly
pleasing personal appearance, perhaps this young lady may be
objectionable in Sir Huddleston Fuddleston's family.

Miss Letitia Hawky, on the other hand, is not personally well-favoured.
She is twenty-nine; her face is much pitted with the small-pox.  She
has a halt in her gait, red hair, and a trifling obliquity of vision.
Both ladies are endowed with EVERY MORAL AND RELIGIOUS VIRTUE.  Their
terms, of course, are such as their accomplishments merit.  With my
most grateful respects to the Reverend Bute Crawley, I have the honour
to be,

Dear Madam,

Your most faithful and obedient servant, Barbara Pinkerton.

P.S.  The Miss Sharp, whom you mention as governess to Sir Pitt
Crawley, Bart., M.P., was a pupil of mine, and I have nothing to say in
her disfavour. Though her appearance is disagreeable, we cannot control
the operations of nature: and though her parents were disreputable (her
father being a painter, several times bankrupt, and her mother, as I
have since learned, with horror, a dancer at the Opera); yet her
talents are considerable, and I cannot regret that I received her OUT
OF CHARITY.  My dread is, lest the principles of the mother--who was
represented to me as a French Countess, forced to emigrate in the late
revolutionary horrors; but who, as I have since found, was a person of
the very lowest order and morals--should at any time prove to be
HEREDITARY in the unhappy young woman whom I took as AN OUTCAST.  But
her principles have hitherto been correct (I believe), and I am sure
nothing will occur to injure them in the elegant and refined circle of
the eminent Sir Pitt Crawley.


Miss Rebecca Sharp to Miss Amelia Sedley.

I have not written to my beloved Amelia for these many weeks past, for
what news was there to tell of the sayings and doings at Humdrum Hall,
as I have christened it; and what do you care whether the turnip crop
is good or bad; whether the fat pig weighed thirteen stone or fourteen;
and whether the beasts thrive well upon mangelwurzel? Every day since I
last wrote has been like its neighbour.  Before breakfast, a walk with
Sir Pitt and his spud; after breakfast studies (such as they are) in
the schoolroom; after schoolroom, reading and writing about lawyers,
leases, coal-mines, canals, with Sir Pitt (whose secretary I am
become); after dinner, Mr. Crawley's discourses on the baronet's
backgammon; during both of which amusements my lady looks on with equal
placidity.  She has become rather more interesting by being ailing of
late, which has brought a new visitor to the Hall, in the person of a
young doctor. Well, my dear, young women need never despair.  The young
doctor gave a certain friend of yours to understand that, if she chose
to be Mrs. Glauber, she was welcome to ornament the surgery! I told his
impudence that the gilt pestle and mortar was quite ornament enough; as
if I was born, indeed, to be a country surgeon's wife! Mr. Glauber went
home seriously indisposed at his rebuff, took a cooling draught, and is
now quite cured.  Sir Pitt applauded my resolution highly; he would be
sorry to lose his little secretary, I think; and I believe the old
wretch likes me as much as it is in his nature to like any one.  Marry,
indeed! and with a country apothecary, after--  No, no, one cannot so
soon forget old associations, about which I will talk no more.  Let us
return to Humdrum Hall.

For some time past it is Humdrum Hall no longer. My dear, Miss Crawley
has arrived with her fat horses, fat servants, fat spaniel--the great
rich Miss Crawley, with seventy thousand pounds in the five per cents.,
whom, or I had better say WHICH, her two brothers adore.  She looks
very apoplectic, the dear soul; no wonder her brothers are anxious
about her.  You should see them struggling to settle her cushions, or
to hand her coffee! "When I come into the country," she says (for she
has a great deal of humour), "I leave my toady, Miss Briggs, at home.
My brothers are my toadies here, my dear, and a pretty pair they are!"

When she comes into the country our hall is thrown open, and for a
month, at least, you would fancy old Sir Walpole was come to life
again.  We have dinner-parties, and drive out in the coach-and-four--the
footmen put on their newest canary-coloured liveries; we drink claret
and champagne as if we were accustomed to it every day.  We have wax
candles in the schoolroom, and fires to warm ourselves with.  Lady
Crawley is made to put on the brightest pea-green in her wardrobe, and
my pupils leave off their thick shoes and tight old tartan pelisses,
and wear silk stockings and muslin frocks, as fashionable baronets'
daughters should.  Rose came in yesterday in a sad plight--the
Wiltshire sow (an enormous pet of hers) ran her down, and destroyed a
most lovely flowered lilac silk dress by dancing over it--had this
happened a week ago, Sir Pitt would have sworn frightfully, have boxed
the poor wretch's ears, and put her upon bread and water for a month.
All he said was, "I'll serve you out, Miss, when your aunt's gone," and
laughed off the accident as quite trivial.  Let us hope his wrath will
have passed away before Miss Crawley's departure.  I hope so, for Miss
Rose's sake, I am sure. What a charming reconciler and peacemaker money
is!

Another admirable effect of Miss Crawley and her seventy thousand
pounds is to be seen in the conduct of the two brothers Crawley.  I
mean the baronet and the rector, not OUR brothers--but the former, who
hate each other all the year round, become quite loving at Christmas.
I wrote to you last year how the abominable horse-racing rector was in
the habit of preaching clumsy sermons at us at church, and how Sir Pitt
snored in answer.  When Miss Crawley arrives there is no such thing as
quarrelling heard of--the Hall visits the Rectory, and vice versa--the
parson and the Baronet talk about the pigs and the poachers, and the
county business, in the most affable manner, and without quarrelling in
their cups, I believe--indeed Miss Crawley won't hear of their
quarrelling, and vows that she will leave her money to the Shropshire
Crawleys if they offend her.  If they were clever people, those
Shropshire Crawleys, they might have it all, I think; but the
Shropshire Crawley is a clergyman like his Hampshire cousin, and
mortally offended Miss Crawley (who had fled thither in a fit of rage
against her impracticable brethren) by some strait-laced notions of
morality.  He would have prayers in the house, I believe.

Our sermon books are shut up when Miss Crawley arrives, and Mr. Pitt,
whom she abominates, finds it convenient to go to town.  On the other
hand, the young dandy--"blood," I believe, is the term--Captain Crawley
makes his appearance, and I suppose you will like to know what sort of
a person he is.

Well, he is a very large young dandy.  He is six feet high, and speaks
with a great voice; and swears a great deal; and orders about the
servants, who all adore him nevertheless; for he is very generous of
his money, and the domestics will do anything for him. Last week the
keepers almost killed a bailiff and his man who came down from London
to arrest the Captain, and who were found lurking about the Park
wall--they beat them, ducked them, and were going to shoot them for
poachers, but the baronet interfered.

The Captain has a hearty contempt for his father, I can see, and calls
him an old PUT, an old SNOB, an old CHAW-BACON, and numberless other
pretty names.  He has a DREADFUL REPUTATION among the ladies. He brings
his hunters home with him, lives with the Squires of the county, asks
whom he pleases to dinner, and Sir Pitt dares not say no, for fear of
offending Miss Crawley, and missing his legacy when she dies of her
apoplexy. Shall I tell you a compliment the Captain paid me?  I must,
it is so pretty.  One evening we actually had a dance; there was Sir
Huddleston Fuddleston and his family, Sir Giles Wapshot and his young
ladies, and I don't know how many more.  Well, I heard him say--"By
Jove, she's a neat little filly!" meaning your humble servant; and he
did me the honour to dance two country-dances with me.  He gets on
pretty gaily with the young Squires, with whom he drinks, bets, rides,
and talks about hunting and shooting; but he says the country girls are
BORES; indeed, I don't think he is far wrong. You should see the
contempt with which they look down on poor me! When they dance I sit
and play the piano very demurely; but the other night, coming in rather
flushed from the dining-room, and seeing me employed in this way, he
swore out loud that I was the best dancer in the room, and took a great
oath that he would have the fiddlers from Mudbury.

"I'll go and play a country-dance," said Mrs. Bute Crawley, very
readily (she is a little, black-faced old woman in a turban, rather
crooked, and with very twinkling eyes); and after the Captain and your
poor little Rebecca had performed a dance together, do you know she
actually did me the honour to compliment me upon my steps! Such a thing
was never heard of before; the proud Mrs. Bute Crawley, first cousin to
the Earl of Tiptoff, who won't condescend to visit Lady Crawley, except
when her sister is in the country.  Poor Lady Crawley! during most part
of these gaieties, she is upstairs taking pills.

Mrs. Bute has all of a sudden taken a great fancy to me.  "My dear Miss
Sharp," she says, "why not bring over your girls to the Rectory?--their
cousins will be so happy to see them." I know what she means.  Signor
Clementi did not teach us the piano for nothing; at which price Mrs.
Bute hopes to get a professor for her children. I can see through her
schemes, as though she told them to me; but I shall go, as I am
determined to make myself agreeable--is it not a poor governess's duty,
who has not a friend or protector in the world? The Rector's wife paid
me a score of compliments about the progress my pupils made, and
thought, no doubt, to touch my heart--poor, simple, country soul!--as
if I cared a fig about my pupils!

Your India muslin and your pink silk, dearest Amelia, are said to
become me very well.  They are a good deal worn now; but, you know, we
poor girls can't afford des fraiches toilettes.  Happy, happy you! who
have but to drive to St. James's Street, and a dear mother who will
give you any thing you ask.  Farewell, dearest girl,

Your affectionate Rebecca.

P.S.--I wish you could have seen the faces of the Miss Blackbrooks
(Admiral Blackbrook's daughters, my dear), fine young ladies, with
dresses from London, when Captain Rawdon selected poor me for a partner!


When Mrs. Bute Crawley (whose artifices our ingenious Rebecca had so
soon discovered) had procured from Miss Sharp the promise of a visit,
she induced the all-powerful Miss Crawley to make the necessary
application to Sir Pitt, and the good-natured old lady, who loved to be
gay herself, and to see every one gay and happy round about her, was
quite charmed, and ready to establish a reconciliation and intimacy
between her two brothers. It was therefore agreed that the young people
of both families should visit each other frequently for the future, and
the friendship of course lasted as long as the jovial old mediatrix was
there to keep the peace.

"Why did you ask that scoundrel, Rawdon Crawley, to dine?" said the
Rector to his lady, as they were walking home through the park.  "I
don't want the fellow.  He looks down upon us country people as so many
blackamoors. He's never content unless he gets my yellow-sealed wine,
which costs me ten shillings a bottle, hang him! Besides, he's such an
infernal character--he's a gambler--he's a drunkard--he's a profligate
in every way.  He shot a man in a duel--he's over head and ears in
debt, and he's robbed me and mine of the best part of Miss Crawley's
fortune.  Waxy says she has him"--here the Rector shook his fist at the
moon, with something very like an oath, and added, in a melancholious
tone, "--down in her will for fifty thousand; and there won't be above
thirty to divide."

"I think she's going," said the Rector's wife.  "She was very red in
the face when we left dinner.  I was obliged to unlace her."

"She drank seven glasses of champagne," said the reverend gentleman, in
a low voice; "and filthy champagne it is, too, that my brother poisons
us with--but you women never know what's what."

"We know nothing," said Mrs. Bute Crawley.

"She drank cherry-brandy after dinner," continued his Reverence, "and
took curacao with her coffee.  I wouldn't take a glass for a five-pound
note: it kills me with heartburn.  She can't stand it, Mrs.
Crawley--she must go--flesh and blood won't bear it! and I lay five to
two, Matilda drops in a year."

Indulging in these solemn speculations, and thinking about his debts,
and his son Jim at College, and Frank at Woolwich, and the four girls,
who were no beauties, poor things, and would not have a penny but what
they got from the aunt's expected legacy, the Rector and his lady
walked on for a while.

"Pitt can't be such an infernal villain as to sell the reversion of the
living.  And that Methodist milksop of an eldest son looks to
Parliament," continued Mr. Crawley, after a pause.

"Sir Pitt Crawley will do anything," said the Rector's wife.  "We must
get Miss Crawley to make him promise it to James."

"Pitt will promise anything," replied the brother.  "He promised he'd
pay my college bills, when my father died; he promised he'd build the
new wing to the Rectory; he promised he'd let me have Jibb's field and
the Six-acre Meadow--and much he executed his promises! And it's to
this man's son--this scoundrel, gambler, swindler, murderer of a Rawdon
Crawley, that Matilda leaves the bulk of her money.  I say it's
un-Christian.  By Jove, it is. The infamous dog has got every vice
except hypocrisy, and that belongs to his brother."

"Hush, my dearest love! we're in Sir Pitt's grounds," interposed his
wife.

"I say he has got every vice, Mrs. Crawley.  Don't Ma'am, bully me.
Didn't he shoot Captain Marker? Didn't he rob young Lord Dovedale at
the Cocoa-Tree? Didn't he cross the fight between Bill Soames and the
Cheshire Trump, by which I lost forty pound? You know he did; and as
for the women, why, you heard that before me, in my own magistrate's
room."

"For heaven's sake, Mr. Crawley," said the lady, "spare me the details."

"And you ask this villain into your house!" continued the exasperated
Rector.  "You, the mother of a young family--the wife of a clergyman of
the Church of England.  By Jove!"

"Bute Crawley, you are a fool," said the Rector's wife scornfully.

"Well, Ma'am, fool or not--and I don't say, Martha, I'm so clever as
you are, I never did.  But I won't meet Rawdon Crawley, that's flat.
I'll go over to Huddleston, that I will, and see his black greyhound,
Mrs. Crawley; and I'll run Lancelot against him for fifty.  By Jove, I
will; or against any dog in England.  But I won't meet that beast
Rawdon Crawley."

"Mr. Crawley, you are intoxicated, as usual," replied his wife.  And
the next morning, when the Rector woke, and called for small beer, she
put him in mind of his promise to visit Sir Huddleston Fuddleston on
Saturday, and as he knew he should have a wet night, it was agreed that
he might gallop back again in time for church on Sunday morning.  Thus
it will be seen that the parishioners of Crawley were equally happy in
their Squire and in their Rector.

Miss Crawley had not long been established at the Hall before Rebecca's
fascinations had won the heart of that good-natured London rake, as
they had of the country innocents whom we have been describing.  Taking
her accustomed drive, one day, she thought fit to order that "that
little governess" should accompany her to Mudbury. Before they had
returned Rebecca had made a conquest of her; having made her laugh four
times, and amused her during the whole of the little journey.

"Not let Miss Sharp dine at table!" said she to Sir Pitt, who had
arranged a dinner of ceremony, and asked all the neighbouring baronets.
"My dear creature, do you suppose I can talk about the nursery with
Lady Fuddleston, or discuss justices' business with that goose, old Sir
Giles Wapshot? I insist upon Miss Sharp appearing.  Let Lady Crawley
remain upstairs, if there is no room. But little Miss Sharp! Why, she's
the only person fit to talk to in the county!"

Of course, after such a peremptory order as this, Miss Sharp, the
governess, received commands to dine with the illustrious company below
stairs.  And when Sir Huddleston had, with great pomp and ceremony,
handed Miss Crawley in to dinner, and was preparing to take his place
by her side, the old lady cried out, in a shrill voice, "Becky Sharp!
Miss Sharp!  Come you and sit by me and amuse me; and let Sir
Huddleston sit by Lady Wapshot."

When the parties were over, and the carriages had rolled away, the
insatiable Miss Crawley would say, "Come to my dressing room, Becky,
and let us abuse the company"--which, between them, this pair of
friends did perfectly.  Old Sir Huddleston wheezed a great deal at
dinner; Sir Giles Wapshot had a particularly noisy manner of imbibing
his soup, and her ladyship a wink of the left eye; all of which Becky
caricatured to admiration; as well as the particulars of the night's
conversation; the politics; the war; the quarter-sessions; the famous
run with the H.H., and those heavy and dreary themes, about which
country gentlemen converse.  As for the Misses Wapshot's toilettes and
Lady Fuddleston's famous yellow hat, Miss Sharp tore them to tatters,
to the infinite amusement of her audience.

"My dear, you are a perfect trouvaille," Miss Crawley would say.  "I
wish you could come to me in London, but I couldn't make a butt of you
as I do of poor Briggs no, no, you little sly creature; you are too
clever--Isn't she, Firkin?"

Mrs. Firkin (who was dressing the very small remnant of hair which
remained on Miss Crawley's pate), flung up her head and said, "I think
Miss is very clever," with the most killing sarcastic air.  In fact,
Mrs. Firkin had that natural jealousy which is one of the main
principles of every honest woman.

After rebuffing Sir Huddleston Fuddleston, Miss Crawley ordered that
Rawdon Crawley should lead her in to dinner every day, and that Becky
should follow with her cushion--or else she would have Becky's arm and
Rawdon with the pillow.  "We must sit together," she said. "We're the
only three Christians in the county, my love"--in which case, it must
be confessed, that religion was at a very low ebb in the county of
Hants.

Besides being such a fine religionist, Miss Crawley was, as we have
said, an Ultra-liberal in opinions, and always took occasion to express
these in the most candid manner.

"What is birth, my dear!" she would say to Rebecca--"Look at my brother
Pitt; look at the Huddlestons, who have been here since Henry II; look
at poor Bute at the parsonage--is any one of them equal to you in
intelligence or breeding? Equal to you--they are not even equal to poor
dear Briggs, my companion, or Bowls, my butler. You, my love, are a
little paragon--positively a little jewel--You have more brains than
half the shire--if merit had its reward you ought to be a Duchess--no,
there ought to be no duchesses at all--but you ought to have no
superior, and I consider you, my love, as my equal in every respect;
and--will you put some coals on the fire, my dear; and will you pick
this dress of mine, and alter it, you who can do it so well?" So this
old philanthropist used to make her equal run of her errands, execute
her millinery, and read her to sleep with French novels, every night.

At this time, as some old readers may recollect, the genteel world had
been thrown into a considerable state of excitement by two events,
which, as the papers say, might give employment to the gentlemen of the
long robe. Ensign Shafton had run away with Lady Barbara Fitzurse, the
Earl of Bruin's daughter and heiress; and poor Vere Vane, a gentleman
who, up to forty, had maintained a most respectable character and
reared a numerous family, suddenly and outrageously left his home, for
the sake of Mrs. Rougemont, the actress, who was sixty-five years of
age.

"That was the most beautiful part of dear Lord Nelson's character,"
Miss Crawley said.  "He went to the deuce for a woman.  There must be
good in a man who will do that.  I adore all imprudent matches.--  What
I like best, is for a nobleman to marry a miller's daughter, as Lord
Flowerdale did--it makes all the women so angry--I wish some great man
would run away with you, my dear; I'm sure you're pretty enough."

"Two post-boys!--Oh, it would be delightful!" Rebecca owned.

"And what I like next best, is for a poor fellow to run away with a
rich girl.  I have set my heart on Rawdon running away with some one."

"A rich some one, or a poor some one?"

"Why, you goose! Rawdon has not a shilling but what I give him.  He is
crible de dettes--he must repair his fortunes, and succeed in the
world."

"Is he very clever?" Rebecca asked.

"Clever, my love?--not an idea in the world beyond his horses, and his
regiment, and his hunting, and his play; but he must succeed--he's so
delightfully wicked.  Don't you know he has hit a man, and shot an
injured father through the hat only? He's adored in his regiment; and
all the young men at Wattier's and the Cocoa-Tree swear by him."

When Miss Rebecca Sharp wrote to her beloved friend the account of the
little ball at Queen's Crawley, and the manner in which, for the first
time, Captain Crawley had distinguished her, she did not, strange to
relate, give an altogether accurate account of the transaction.  The
Captain had distinguished her a great number of times before.  The
Captain had met her in a half-score of walks. The Captain had lighted
upon her in a half-hundred of corridors and passages.  The Captain had
hung over her piano twenty times of an evening (my Lady was now
upstairs, being ill, and nobody heeded her) as Miss Sharp sang.  The
Captain had written her notes (the best that the great blundering
dragoon could devise and spell; but dulness gets on as well as any
other quality with women).  But when he put the first of the notes into
the leaves of the song she was singing, the little governess, rising
and looking him steadily in the face, took up the triangular missive
daintily, and waved it about as if it were a cocked hat, and she,
advancing to the enemy, popped the note into the fire, and made him a
very low curtsey, and went back to her place, and began to sing away
again more merrily than ever.

"What's that?" said Miss Crawley, interrupted in her after-dinner doze
by the stoppage of the music.

"It's a false note," Miss Sharp said with a laugh; and Rawdon Crawley
fumed with rage and mortification.

Seeing the evident partiality of Miss Crawley for the new governess,
how good it was of Mrs. Bute Crawley not to be jealous, and to welcome
the young lady to the Rectory, and not only her, but Rawdon Crawley,
her husband's rival in the Old Maid's five per cents! They became very
fond of each other's society, Mrs. Crawley and her nephew.  He gave up
hunting; he declined entertainments at Fuddleston: he would not dine
with the mess of the depot at Mudbury: his great pleasure was to stroll
over to Crawley parsonage--whither Miss Crawley came too; and as their
mamma was ill, why not the children with Miss Sharp? So the children
(little dears!) came with Miss Sharp; and of an evening some of the
party would walk back together.  Not Miss Crawley--she preferred her
carriage--but the walk over the Rectory fields, and in at the little
park wicket, and through the dark plantation, and up the checkered
avenue to Queen's Crawley, was charming in the moonlight to two such
lovers of the picturesque as the Captain and Miss Rebecca.

"O those stars, those stars!" Miss Rebecca would say, turning her
twinkling green eyes up towards them.  "I feel myself almost a spirit
when I gaze upon them."

"O--ah--Gad--yes, so do I exactly, Miss Sharp," the other enthusiast
replied.  "You don't mind my cigar, do you, Miss Sharp?"  Miss Sharp
loved the smell of a cigar out of doors beyond everything in the
world--and she just tasted one too, in the prettiest way possible, and
gave a little puff, and a little scream, and a little giggle, and
restored the delicacy to the Captain, who twirled his moustache, and
straightway puffed it into a blaze that glowed quite red in the dark
plantation, and swore--"Jove--aw--Gad--aw--it's the finest segaw I ever
smoked in the world aw," for his intellect and conversation were alike
brilliant and becoming to a heavy young dragoon.

Old Sir Pitt, who was taking his pipe and beer, and talking to John
Horrocks about a "ship" that was to be killed, espied the pair so
occupied from his study-window, and with dreadful oaths swore that if
it wasn't for Miss Crawley, he'd take Rawdon and bundle un out of
doors, like a rogue as he was.

"He be a bad'n, sure enough," Mr. Horrocks remarked; "and his man
Flethers is wuss, and have made such a row in the housekeeper's room
about the dinners and hale, as no lord would make--but I think Miss
Sharp's a match for'n, Sir Pitt," he added, after a pause.

And so, in truth, she was--for father and son too.

 Rebecca writes to Amelia describing her sadness at their separation, relating in detail the coach trip, and ridiculing Sir Pitt. She describes the Crawley family, dwells on Sir Pitt's crudeness and stinginess, saying that he even counts the grapes on the vines. At the close of the letter, the author notes that Rebecca reveres only money and success. He says he will tell the truth, and it will not be beautiful. After the death of his highbred first wife, Sir Pitt has married Rose Dawson, the daughter of an ironmonger. Rose, happy to be Lady Crawley, has given up the man she loved and the friends of her youth, as they cannot be received by one of her station. To her sorrow she finds that no one of her new rank will associate with her. Her only good quality, her beauty, soon fades; she continuously mourns its loss. Young Pitt Crawley, a very correct person, is attentive to the schooling of the two Crawley girls, his half sisters. Rebecca is to be their governess. The late Walpole Crawley, beloved by all for his drunkenness and hospitality, has left the family estate financially embarrassed because of a fine incurred for embezzlement. Sir Pitt is too stingy to hire honest workmen and is swindled by the dishonest. He buys cheap horses and loses them by starvation. He will not pay his debts, even those owed his son from the mother's estate. His rich half sister won't loan him money. However, he loves show and will not drive without four horses; and although he eats boiled mutton, he has three footmen to serve it. Rebecca wins her way into the affections of those who count in this household. She asks Mr. Pitt to translate French for her, though she knows it better than he. She sighs and cries over his pious discourses and tells him she is descended from the Montmorency family, but omits the detail that her mother was an actress. Rebecca plays backgammon with Sir Pitt. She copies his letters, corrects his spelling, reads his law papers, learns about running the estate, and wins the baronet's confidence to the degree that he begins to depend on her advice. Sir Pitt's sons, Pitt and Rawdon, hate each other. Miss Crawley, the rich aunt, has sent Rawdon, her favorite, to Cambridge. After two years he is expelled, and she buys him a commission in the Life Guards Green where he is a dandy and fights duels. Pitt Crawley objects to visits from his rich aunt because he can't pray and read his sermons. She won't leave him money anyhow, having a weakness for Rawdon's wild, unorthodox, and radical ways, and calling Pitt a "puling hypocrite." After his description of the honest folk at Queen's Crawley, Thackeray introduces the Reverend Bute Crawley, who bets on the races, boxes, eats, drinks, sings, fishes, follows the hounds, and is generally popular in the area. His wife writes his sermons, runs the house, and lets him go as he pleases, knowing every meal he eats elsewhere saves her money. Bute, in debt from a wild racing bet, thinks his rich sister must leave him half her money. Sir Pitt and Bute quarrel and spy on each other continually, but when their rich sister visits, they love each other and wait on her like toadies. Snoopy Mrs. Bute writes Miss Pinkerton for information about Becky, and gets plenty. Rebecca writes Amelia about Humdrum Hall and of Rawdon and how he prefers to dance with her. Horrocks, the butler, tells Sir Pitt he thinks Becky a match for Rawdon, and the author adds, for Rawdon's father too. The subject of Miss Matilda Crawley's death is hopefully discussed among her loving relatives who want her money. Chapter 11 comments on how people will pretend and flatter to get money.

