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vulgarest Hampshire accent; sometimes adopting the tone of a man of the world. And so, with injunctions to Miss Sharp to be ready at five in the morning, he bade her good night. Youll sleep with Tinker to- night, he said; its a big bed, and theres room for two. Lady Crawley died in it. Good night. Sir Pitt went off after this benediction, and the solemn Tinker, rushlight in hand, led the way up the great bleak stone stairs, past the great dreary drawing-room doors, with the handles muffled up in paper, into the great front bedroom, where Lady Crawley had slept her last. The bed and chamber were so funereal and gloomy, you might have fancied, not only that Lady Crawley died in the room, but that her ghost inhabited it. Rebecca sprang about the apartment, however, with the greatest liveliness, and had peeped into the huge wardrobes, and the closets, and the cupboards, and tried the drawers which were locked, and examined the dreary pictures and toilette appointments, while the old charwoman was saying her prayers. I shouldnt like to sleep in this yeer bed without a good conscience, Miss, said the old woman. Theres room for us and a half-dozen of ghosts in it, says Rebecca. Tell me all about Lady Crawley and Sir Pitt Crawley, and everybody, my dear Mrs. Tinker. But old Tinker was not to be pumped by this little cross-questioner; and signifying to her that bed was a place for sleeping, not conversation, set up in her corner of the bed such a snore as only the nose of innocence can produce. Rebecca lay awake for a long, long time, thinking of the morrow, and of the new world into which she was going, and of her chances of success there. The rushlight flickered in the basin. The mantelpiece cast up a great black shadow, over half of a mouldy old sampler, which her defunct ladyship had worked, no doubt, and over two little family pictures of young lads, one in a college gown, and the other in a red jacket like a soldier. When she went to sleep, Rebecca chose that one to dream about. At four oclock, on such a roseate summers morning as even made Great Gaunt Street look cheerful, the faithful Tinker, having wakened her bedfellow, and bid her prepare for departure, unbarred and unbolted the great hall door (the clanging and clapping whereof startled the sleeping echoes in the street), and taking her way into Oxford Street, summoned a coach from a stand there. It is needless to particularize the number of the vehicle, or to state that the driver was stationed thus early in the neighbourhood of Swallow Street, in hopes that some young buck, reeling homeward from the tavern, might need the aid of his vehicle, and pay him with the generosity of intoxication. It is likewise needless to say that the driver, if he had any such hopes as those.above stated, was grossly disappointed; and that the worthy Baronet whom he drove to the City did not give him one single penny more than his fare. It was in vain that Jehu appealed and stormed; that he flung down Miss Sharps bandboxes in the gutter at the Necks, and swore he would take the law of his fare. Youd better not, said one of the ostlers; its Sir Pitt Crawley. So it is, Joe, cried the Baronet, approvingly; and Id like to see the man can do me. So should oi, said Joe, grinning sulkily, and mounting the Baronets baggage on the roof of the coach. Keep the box for me, Leader, exclaims the Member of Parliament to the coachman; who replied, Yes, Sir Pitt, with a touch of his hat, and rage in his soul (for he had promised the box to a young gentleman from Cambridge, who would have given a crown to a certainty), and Miss Sharp was accommodated with a back seat inside the carriage, which might be said to be carrying her into the wide world. How the young man from Cambridge sulkily put his five great-coats in front; but was reconciled when little Miss Sharp was made to quit the carriage, and mount up beside himwhen he covered her up in one of his Benjamins, and became perfectly good-humouredhow the asthmatic gentleman, the prim lady, who declared upon her sacred honour she had never travelled in a public carriage before (there is always such a lady in a coachAlas! was; for the coaches, where are they?), and the fat widow with the brandy-bottle, took their places insidehow the porter asked them all for money, and got sixpence from the gentleman and five greasy halfpence from the fat widowand how the carriage at length drove awaynow threading the dark lanes of Aldersgate, anon clattering by the Blue Cupola of St. Pauls, jingling rapidly by the strangers entry of Fleet- Market, which, with Exeter Change, has now departed to the world of shadowshow they passed the White Bear in Piccadilly, and saw the dew rising up from the market-gardens of Knightsbridgehow Turnhamgreen, Brentwood, Bagshot, were passedneed not be told here. But the writer of these pages, who has pursued in former days, and in the same bright weather, the same remarkable journey, cannot but think of it with a sweet and tender regret. Where is the road now, and its merry incidents of life? Is there no Chelsea or Greenwich for the old honest pimple-nosed coachmen? I wonder where are they, those good fellows? Is old Weller alive or dead? and the waiters, yea, and the |
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