Vanity Fair (92 page)

After a lively chat with this lady (who sat on the edge of the
breakfast table in an easy attitude displaying the drapery of her
stocking and an ex-white satin shoe, which was down at heel),
Colonel Crawley called for pens and ink, and paper, and being asked
how many sheets, chose one which was brought to him between Miss
Moss's own finger and thumb. Many a sheet had that dark-eyed damsel
brought in; many a poor fellow had scrawled and blotted hurried
lines of entreaty and paced up and down that awful room until his
messenger brought back the reply. Poor men always use messengers
instead of the post. Who has not had their letters, with the wafers
wet, and the announcement that a person is waiting in the hall?

Now on the score of his application, Rawdon had not many misgivings.

DEAR BECKY, (Rawdon wrote)

I HOPE YOU SLEPT WELL. Don't be FRIGHTENED if I don't bring you in
your COFFY. Last night as I was coming home smoaking, I met with an
ACCADENT. I was NABBED by Moss of Cursitor Street—from whose GILT
AND SPLENDID PARLER I write this—the same that had me this time two
years. Miss Moss brought in my tea—she is grown very FAT, and, as
usual, had her STOCKENS DOWN AT HEAL.

It's Nathan's business—a hundred-and-fifty—with costs, hundred-
and-seventy. Please send me my desk and some CLOTHS—I'm in pumps
and a white tye (something like Miss M's stockings)—I've seventy in
it. And as soon as you get this, Drive to Nathan's—offer him
seventy-five down, and ASK HIM TO RENEW—say I'll take wine—we may
as well have some dinner sherry; but not PICTURS, they're too dear.

If he won't stand it. Take my ticker and such of your things as you
can SPARE, and send them to Balls—we must, of coarse, have the sum
to-night. It won't do to let it stand over, as to-morrow's Sunday;
the beds here are not very CLEAN, and there may be other things out
against me—I'm glad it an't Rawdon's Saturday for coming home. God
bless you.

Yours in haste, R. C.
P.S. Make haste and come.

This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched by one of the
messengers who are always hanging about Mr. Moss's establishment,
and Rawdon, having seen him depart, went out in the court-yard and
smoked his cigar with a tolerably easy mind—in spite of the bars
overhead—for Mr. Moss's court-yard is railed in like a cage, lest
the gentlemen who are boarding with him should take a fancy to
escape from his hospitality.

Three hours, he calculated, would be the utmost time required,
before Becky should arrive and open his prison doors, and he passed
these pretty cheerfully in smoking, in reading the paper, and in the
coffee-room with an acquaintance, Captain Walker, who happened to be
there, and with whom he cut for sixpences for some hours, with
pretty equal luck on either side.

But the day passed away and no messenger returned—no Becky. Mr.
Moss's tably-dy-hoty was served at the appointed hour of half-past
five, when such of the gentlemen lodging in the house as could
afford to pay for the banquet came and partook of it in the splendid
front parlour before described, and with which Mr. Crawley's
temporary lodging communicated, when Miss M. (Miss Hem, as her papa
called her) appeared without the curl-papers of the morning, and
Mrs. Hem did the honours of a prime boiled leg of mutton and
turnips, of which the Colonel ate with a very faint appetite. Asked
whether he would "stand" a bottle of champagne for the company, he
consented, and the ladies drank to his 'ealth, and Mr. Moss, in the
most polite manner, "looked towards him."

In the midst of this repast, however, the doorbell was heard—young
Moss of the ruddy hair rose up with the keys and answered the
summons, and coming back, told the Colonel that the messenger had
returned with a bag, a desk and a letter, which he gave him. "No
ceramony, Colonel, I beg," said Mrs. Moss with a wave of her hand,
and he opened the letter rather tremulously. It was a beautiful
letter, highly scented, on a pink paper, and with a light green
seal.

MON PAUVRE CHER PETIT, (Mrs. Crawley wrote)

I could not sleep ONE WINK for thinking of what had become of my
odious old monstre, and only got to rest in the morning after
sending for Mr. Blench (for I was in a fever), who gave me a
composing draught and left orders with Finette that I should be
disturbed ON NO ACCOUNT. So that my poor old man's messenger, who
had bien mauvaise mine Finette says, and sentoit le Genievre,
remained in the hall for some hours waiting my bell. You may fancy
my state when I read your poor dear old ill-spelt letter.

Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon as I
was dressed (though I couldn't drink a drop of chocolate—I assure
you I couldn't without my monstre to bring it to me), I drove ventre
a terre to Nathan's. I saw him—I wept—I cried—I fell at his
odious knees. Nothing would mollify the horrid man. He would have
all the money, he said, or keep my poor monstre in prison. I drove
home with the intention of paying that triste visite chez mon oncle
(when every trinket I have should be at your disposal though they
would not fetch a hundred pounds, for some, you know, are with ce
cher oncle already), and found Milor there with the Bulgarian old
sheep-faced monster, who had come to compliment me upon last night's
performances. Paddington came in, too, drawling and lisping and
twiddling his hair; so did Champignac, and his chef—everybody with
foison of compliments and pretty speeches—plaguing poor me, who
longed to be rid of them, and was thinking every moment of the time
of mon pauvre prisonnier.

When they were gone, I went down on my knees to Milor; told him we
were going to pawn everything, and begged and prayed him to give me
two hundred pounds. He pish'd and psha'd in a fury—told me not to
be such a fool as to pawn—and said he would see whether he could
lend me the money. At last he went away, promising that he would
send it me in the morning: when I will bring it to my poor old
monster with a kiss from his affectionate

BECKY

I am writing in bed. Oh I have such a headache and such a
heartache!

When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so red and looked so
savage that the company at the table d'hote easily perceived that
bad news had reached him. All his suspicions, which he had been
trying to banish, returned upon him. She could not even go out and
sell her trinkets to free him. She could laugh and talk about
compliments paid to her, whilst he was in prison. Who had put him
there? Wenham had walked with him. Was there.... He could hardly
bear to think of what he suspected. Leaving the room hurriedly, he
ran into his own—opened his desk, wrote two hurried lines, which he
directed to Sir Pitt or Lady Crawley, and bade the messenger carry
them at once to Gaunt Street, bidding him to take a cab, and
promising him a guinea if he was back in an hour.

In the note he besought his dear brother and sister, for the sake of
God, for the sake of his dear child and his honour, to come to him
and relieve him from his difficulty. He was in prison, he wanted a
hundred pounds to set him free—he entreated them to come to him.

He went back to the dining-room after dispatching his messenger and
called for more wine. He laughed and talked with a strange
boisterousness, as the people thought. Sometimes he laughed madly
at his own fears and went on drinking for an hour, listening all the
while for the carriage which was to bring his fate back.

At the expiration of that time, wheels were heard whirling up to the
gate—the young janitor went out with his gate-keys. It was a lady
whom he let in at the bailiff's door.

"Colonel Crawley," she said, trembling very much. He, with a
knowing look, locked the outer door upon her—then unlocked and
opened the inner one, and calling out, "Colonel, you're wanted," led
her into the back parlour, which he occupied.

Rawdon came in from the dining-parlour where all those people were
carousing, into his back room; a flare of coarse light following him
into the apartment where the lady stood, still very nervous.

"It is I, Rawdon," she said in a timid voice, which she strove to
render cheerful. "It is Jane." Rawdon was quite overcome by that
kind voice and presence. He ran up to her—caught her in his arms—
gasped out some inarticulate words of thanks and fairly sobbed on
her shoulder. She did not know the cause of his emotion.

The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhaps to the
disappointment of that gentleman, who had counted on having the
Colonel as his guest over Sunday at least; and Jane, with beaming
smiles and happiness in her eyes, carried away Rawdon from the
bailiff's house, and they went homewards in the cab in which she had
hastened to his release. "Pitt was gone to a parliamentary dinner,"
she said, "when Rawdon's note came, and so, dear Rawdon, I—I came
myself"; and she put her kind hand in his. Perhaps it was well for
Rawdon Crawley that Pitt was away at that dinner. Rawdon thanked
his sister a hundred times, and with an ardour of gratitude which
touched and almost alarmed that soft-hearted woman. "Oh," said he,
in his rude, artless way, "you—you don't know how I'm changed since
I've known you, and—and little Rawdy. I—I'd like to change
somehow. You see I want—I want—to be—" He did not finish the
sentence, but she could interpret it. And that night after he left
her, and as she sat by her own little boy's bed, she prayed humbly
for that poor way-worn sinner.

Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was nine o'clock at
night. He ran across the streets and the great squares of Vanity
Fair, and at length came up breathless opposite his own house. He
started back and fell against the railings, trembling as he looked
up. The drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She had said
that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for some time, the
light from the rooms on his pale face.

He took out his door-key and let himself into the house. He could
hear laughter in the upper rooms. He was in the ball-dress in which
he had been captured the night before. He went silently up the
stairs, leaning against the banisters at the stair-head. Nobody was
stirring in the house besides—all the servants had been sent away.
Rawdon heard laughter within—laughter and singing. Becky was
singing a snatch of the song of the night before; a hoarse voice
shouted "Brava! Brava!"—it was Lord Steyne's.

Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table with a dinner
was laid out—and wine and plate. Steyne was hanging over the sofa
on which Becky sat. The wretched woman was in a brilliant full
toilette, her arms and all her fingers sparkling with bracelets and
rings, and the brilliants on her breast which Steyne had given her.
He had her hand in his, and was bowing over it to kiss it, when
Becky started up with a faint scream as she caught sight of Rawdon's
white face. At the next instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile,
as if to welcome her husband; and Steyne rose up, grinding his
teeth, pale, and with fury in his looks.

He, too, attempted a laugh—and came forward holding out his hand.
"What, come back! How d'ye do, Crawley?" he said, the nerves of his
mouth twitching as he tried to grin at the intruder.

There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky to fling herself
before him. "I am innocent, Rawdon," she said; "before God, I am
innocent." She clung hold of his coat, of his hands; her own were
all covered with serpents, and rings, and baubles. "I am innocent.
Say I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne.

He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as furious with the
wife as with the husband. "You innocent! Damn you," he screamed
out. "You innocent! Why every trinket you have on your body is
paid for by me. I have given you thousands of pounds, which this
fellow has spent and for which he has sold you. Innocent, by —!
You're as innocent as your mother, the ballet-girl, and your husband
the bully. Don't think to frighten me as you have done others.
Make way, sir, and let me pass"; and Lord Steyne seized up his hat,
and, with flame in his eyes, and looking his enemy fiercely in the
face, marched upon him, never for a moment doubting that the other
would give way.

But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him by the neckcloth, until
Steyne, almost strangled, writhed and bent under his arm. "You lie,
you dog!" said Rawdon. "You lie, you coward and villain!" And he
struck the Peer twice over the face with his open hand and flung him
bleeding to the ground. It was all done before Rebecca could
interpose. She stood there trembling before him. She admired her
husband, strong, brave, and victorious.

"Come here," he said. She came up at once.

"Take off those things." She began, trembling, pulling the jewels
from her arms, and the rings from her shaking fingers, and held them
all in a heap, quivering and looking up at him. "Throw them down,"
he said, and she dropped them. He tore the diamond ornament out of
her breast and flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut him on his bald
forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his dying day.

"Come upstairs," Rawdon said to his wife. "Don't kill me, Rawdon,"
she said. He laughed savagely. "I want to see if that man lies
about the money as he has about me. Has he given you any?"

"No," said Rebecca, "that is—"

"Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they went out together.

Rebecca gave him all the keys but one, and she was in hopes that he
would not have remarked the absence of that. It belonged to the
little desk which Amelia had given her in early days, and which she
kept in a secret place. But Rawdon flung open boxes and wardrobes,
throwing the multifarious trumpery of their contents here and there,
and at last he found the desk. The woman was forced to open it. It
contained papers, love-letters many years old—all sorts of small
trinkets and woman's memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book with
bank-notes. Some of these were dated ten years back, too, and one
was quite a fresh one—a note for a thousand pounds which Lord
Steyne had given her.