“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?’